Not my blood.
Hisblood.
The man who tried to kill me—one of the men RJ put down without hesitation, without remorse, without a single flicker of doubt in those winter-gray eyes.
Three men.
Three bodies.
And RJ didn't even flinch.
I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, catching my reflection in the fogged mirror.
I look like a ghost.
Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, my wet hair plastered to my shoulders in limp strands.
The cream dress is gone—ruined, probably burned by now.
It was covered in dust and debris and someone else's death.
I'll never wear cream again.
My hands won't stop shaking.
I press them flat against the marble counter, willing them to be still, but my body has decided it's done listening to my brain.
Every few seconds, another tremor rolls through me.
Aftershocks from the earthquake that ripped my world apart.
Just this morning, everything was different.
Just this morning, I was someone else.
Nine o'clock sharp.
I stood outside Greer's study with my portfolio clutched against my chest like a shield, heart hammering so loud I was sure she could hear it through the heavy oak door.
The hallway was quiet.
Too quiet.
Just me and my nerves and the faint ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere nearby, counting down the seconds until my career either launched or imploded.
"Come in, Dalla."
How did she always know?
I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The room was flooded with pale morning light, illuminating walls lined with sketches from every major collection Greer had ever produced.
Decades of genius, framed and displayed.
A reminder of exactly whose approval I was seeking.
There—the structured coat from her 1998 Paris debut, the one that made her a household name. And there—the draped gown that graced the cover of Vogue in 2005.
