Ashveil glittered when it wanted to, but anyone who lived here long enough knew the shine came from polish smeared over rot. The city sold power in silk gowns and glass towers, and tonight was no different.
The ballroom on the fortieth floor of the Halloway Hotel stank of money and fear. Chandeliers burned too bright overhead, and a string quartet played like well-dressed prisoners. Laughter rang out—fake, brittle, the sound of men bidding millions on stolen shit and women's silence.
Serena Vale leaned against a marble column, champagne untouched, smile carved on like armor. Everyone knew the Vale name. It meant contracts signed in blood, debts enforced with broken bones. Her family's fortune poisoned the city like a drug, and she was the daughter paraded out to remind everyone who owned who.
She hated every fucking second of it.
And then she saw her.
Not one of the sequined wives desperate for attention. Not another hollow-eyed socialite sipping wine like it meant something. This woman didn't belong. She moved through the room with sharp confidence, eyes cutting through silk and gold like she already knew it was all bullshit. Silver streaks flashed through her braids, and the way she smirked at men twice her age made Serena's stomach clench.
No way she had an invitation. Either she'd forged her way past security, or she was running some angle Serena couldn't see yet. Either way, she didn't fit—and that made her magnetic.
Their eyes met across the crowd.
Not casual. Not an accident.
A direct fucking hit.
Serena's lips twitched before she could stop them. She hadn't smiled for real in months, maybe years, and here she was—cracking for some stranger who shouldn't even be in the room.
The woman noticed. Tilted her head, amused, like Serena had already confessed something out loud. Then she cut through the crowd, weaving between tuxedos and gowns until she was standing right in front of Serena's column.
"Careful," the woman said, voice low, rough. "Keep staring like that and someone's gonna notice."
Serena's jaw tightened. "You're not supposed to be here."
"Neither are you." Her eyes dragged down Serena's body, slow, shameless, then back up. "At least I'm not pretending."
Serena bristled, pulse thumping hard in her chest. "You think walking in here like you own the place makes you bold?"
The woman leaned in, close enough that Serena caught smoke and steel on her breath. "No. It makes me honest. Everyone else here is too scared to be."
Serena's throat felt tight. She had built walls her whole damn life, thick enough to keep out anyone who tried. But this stranger's stare slid straight through them like a blade.
The auctioneer's voice boomed, announcing another lot—some ugly painting half the room would kill to smuggle home. Applause rippled. No one noticed Serena and the stranger standing too close, saying too much without moving at all.
"You should walk away," Serena said. It came out harsher than she meant. More desperate than she wanted.
The woman smirked. "I should. But you don't want me to."
Before Serena could answer, a heavy hand clamped her shoulder. Her uncle, smile fake, eyes cold, whispering through his teeth: "Don't get distracted, girl. You know what's at stake tonight."
Serena's pulse snapped back to reality. She turned her head, forced her face into something polite. But when she looked back—
The woman was gone.
Vanished like smoke in the wind.
Serena forced herself to breathe, to sip the champagne she'd been ignoring, to nod when her uncle pointed her toward another guest. But her head wasn't in it. Her mind stayed locked on the woman with the silver braids, and the way she looked at Serena like she'd already decided this was going to end in sin