The luxury tent glowed like a guilty secret—lamplight softened by silk walls, the air heavy with orchids and bad intentions. The flower scented diffuser was too fragrant, almost smug about it, as if it knew exactly why they'd been invited.
Mirabel Vexley lounged in a velvet armchair, queenly and unbothered, her fingers lazily circling the rim of her wineglass. She looked bored. That alone should've terrified them.
On the polished table lay the contract.
One sheet of paper. Handwritten by Bianca minutes ago. Still warm with ink.
A murder, dressed in business casual.
Bianca Monroe nudged the pen across the table with a slow, deliberate push, smiling the way women do when they think they're being clever. "Trust," she said softly, "is fragile."
Mirabel raised an eyebrow. So are necks, she thought.
"But this?" Bianca tapped the paper. "This makes things… binding. If anyone suddenly grows a conscience."
