The air in Crosby's penthouse was thick with a forced, saccharine cheer. Balloons in every shade of pink bobbed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, and a grotesquely elaborate castle-shaped cake dominated the dining table. It was Ivy's sixth birthday, and the entire scene was a perfect, sterile display of Blackwood wealth and control. My daughter, the beautiful, dark-haired little girl at the center of it all, looked like a porcelain doll in her frilly pink dress. She was quiet, her small hand clutching mine a little too tightly. She was always quiet around him.
Crosby stood near the bar, a silent king observing his domain. He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. This party was a performance, another possession to be showcased. I felt a familiar ache, the hollow echo of Lyra's warning. A ghost who cries in the garden.
The elevator chimed, a soft, intrusive sound in the curated celebration. The doors slid open, and my heart stopped.
Riven stood there.
