Viktor dragged Emily into the ballroom through a service entrance, ensuring she saw everything before she was seen. The elegant gala had been transformed into something else entirely—a theater for Eleanor Drake's ultimate victory.
The guests were gone. Only The Vanguard's inner circle remained—perhaps thirty people, all standing in a semicircle around the room's center. And there, forced to his knees on the marble floor with his hands secured behind his back, was Alexander.
Emily's heart shattered at the sight of him. His expensive suit was torn, his lip split and bleeding. But worse than the physical damage was his expression—absolutely devastated, the controlled mask completely gone, replaced by raw anguish.
Because he'd heard Eleanor's order. He knew Emily had been captured. And judging by the screen set up near where Eleanor stood, he'd been watching it all.
