And Corrine is completely invisible.
Jaxon whistles low. “That’s a lot of smoke for there not to be a fire.”
But I already know. I feel it in my bones.
This wasn’t just the trauma that shaped Grant.
This was the moment that broke something.
Whatever happened in that house didn’t just kill Sylvia Harrow.
It fractured the boy she left behind.
And the silence they’ve buried it under is starting to rot.
I push the laptop away, grabbing my notebook off the counter. Flip it open to a clean page and click my pen once.
Two names.
Grant.
Dante.
And below them, one question in bold strokes:
What happened in that house?
The end of the charity golf tournament always means one thing—excess.
The ballroom at the Four Seasons has been transformed into a high-roller’s fever dream. Poker tables straight out of Vegas. Roulette wheels spinning. Craps, blackjack, Texas hold ’em—you name it, it’s here. Crystal chandeliers hang like icicles made of money.
Every cocktail is handcrafted. Every smile, rehearsed. Manhattan’s finest dressed in custom tuxedos and couture gowns, all here to drink, gamble, and drop seven figures in the name of philanthropy.
And later—after the games end and the masks slip—we’ll all sit down to a five-course dinner where every plate costs more than a college education.
Just another night in the empire.
Usually, at events like this—where Marchesi and Harrow are both expected to smile for the cameras—we orbit each othercarefully. Deliberately. Grant keeps to his side of the room. I keep to mine. I bring a Ledger companion. Sometimes two. Just enough skin, just enough laughter, just enough whispered filth into a perfectly attentive ear to make sure he sees it.
We never talked about it. Never had to.
It was just a game.
Unspoken rules. Silent power plays.
But tonight, I’m playing a different game.
And I’m looking for the long-legged brunette I enlisted to help me win it.
A white-gloved server approaches with a tray. “Your bourbon, Mr. Marchesi.”
I take the glass with a nod of thanks, the cut crystal heavy in my palm. Good burn. Smooth finish. Nothing but the best for the men who rule this city and the women who wear gowns as well as they wear secrets.
I’m mid-sip when the crowd shifts—and then parts.
And there she is.
Eve Sterling.
