The journey back from the Solstice Gala was a suffocating exercise in silence. The interior of the luxury sedan felt smaller than usual, the air thick with the unspoken questions radiating from Chen Shao.
He sat across from her, his fox mask resting on the leather seat between them, his eyes darting toward his sister every few seconds. He clearly wanted to speak—to ask about the dance, about the man in the obsidian mask, or why she looked like she was ready to set the city on fire.
But Chen Ying was a wall of ice. She didn't see the flickering streetlights of the capital or the concerned expression on her brother's face. All she saw, etched into the back of her eyelids, was a delicate chain of white gold and a swinging sapphire flower.
When the car finally pulled into the gravel driveway of the Chen Villa, she didn't wait for the driver to open the door. She stepped out, her crimson gown rustling like a warning against the gravel, and walked straight into the house.
