The museum fundraiser was a sanctuary of elegance fine wine, hushed symphonies, and million-dollar smiles plastered beneath million-dollar art. It was an evening dedicated to celebrating pieces that had survived war and time.
Alessia Grey moved through it like she belonged to both.
She wore a deep emerald gown, the silk sculpted to her figure like second skin. Her hair was pinned in an elegant twist, exposing the curve of her throat, where a sapphire pendant shimmered like a blade dipped in moonlight.
People stared. They always did. But tonight, the stares lingered longer.
Because Alessia didn't just walk into the room she owned it.
But even queens have ghosts.
And hers stood across the hall.
Ethan Hart.
He was in black. Classic. Controlled. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes his eyes they locked onto her like they were trying to unearth something long buried.
He didn't blink.
Didn't smile.
He studied her.
Alessia didn't flinch. Not on the outside. But her grip on her champagne flute tightened, nails pressing faint crescents into glass.
She could feel him coming. Each step is slow, deliberate.
Camille saw it too from across the ballroom, drink in hand.
She leaned toward a friend, voice sharp. "Why is Ethan looking at her like that?"
Her friend shrugged. "She's gorgeous. Can you blame him?"
But Camille's gut twisted. Ethan wasn't interested in beauty.
He was interested in truth.
And that woman—Alessia Grey—was hiding too much of it.
Ethan didn't stop until he was right beside Alessia, his voice low, slicing through the soft music like a scalpel.
"You remind me of someone," he said quietly. "She died three years ago."
Alessia turned to him, expression composed, voice silk and steel.
"I've been told I have one of those faces."
He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just leaned in slightly.
"You wear the same perfume."
"Coincidence."
"And you tilt your head the same way… right before you lie."
A crack formed.
Not on her face. Not in her voice.
But inside, in that part of her heart that still remembered what it felt like to matter to him.
Still, she didn't flinch.
"You must be confusing me with someone who gave a damn," she said coolly, then walked away heels clicking like war drums across marble.
Ethan stood frozen. Watching her go. Frowning.
He didn't know what just happened.
But he felt it.
Like the first drop of blood before the blade hits.
Camille, meanwhile, burned with jealousy. Her eyes followed Alessia like a hawk.
That woman had something on Ethan.
And Camille couldn't afford any more competition; not after the scandal that had just wrecked her charity reputation.
In a quiet hallway near the restrooms, Camille ducked into a private stall and yanked her phone from her clutch. She dialed a number she had sworn she'd never call again.
The line crackled.
A male voice answered. Cold. Familiar.
"It's me," she whispered. "I need a background check. Deep. Quiet. Name's Alessia Grey."
Pause.
"And if she's who I think she is…" Her voice dropped to a hiss. "I'll pay triple to make sure she disappears again."
Not far away, on the rooftop balcony, Alessia stood alone; until Lucian joined her.
He handed her a glass of whiskey. "You let him get too close."
Alessia sipped once before answering. "He was already close. I just didn't push him away fast enough."
Lucian's jaw tensed. "He's dangerous, Alessa. He's not a fool. He's watching you."
She nodded slowly, eyes on the city skyline.
"And Camille? She made a call. I don't know who yet. But it wasn't for flowers or gossip."
Lucian stepped forward, gaze sharp. "What kind of call?"
"The kind that doesn't ask questions before pulling a trigger."
A beat of silence passed.
Then Lucian asked, "Want me to handle it?"
Alessia shook her head.
"No. This one's mine."
She turned to face him fully, eyes glowing with the kind of cold fury that made men kneel or run.
"I gave them mercy once. It cost me everything."
She dropped her gaze to the swirling amber in her glass.
"Now I'm smiling with knives."