The Price of White Silk

The Presidential Suite at the Hotel Grandeur smelled of lilies and expensive, suffocating silence. Elena Vance stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror, watching her reflection—a woman draped in white silk, currently being dismantled by the weight of her own ruin. She reached up, fingers trembling only for a fraction of a second before she gripped the lace veil and tore it free. The pins clattered against the marble like spent ammunition.

Marcus Thorne hadn’t just left her at the altar; he had liquidated her family’s remaining holdings to cover his gambling debts and vanished into the city’s underbelly. By morning, the creditors would arrive at the V

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