Public Proof, Private Toll

The transition from the catering corridor to the ballroom felt less like an entrance and more like a surrender. Mara smoothed the silk of her gown, her fingers steadying into a mask of professional indifference. Beside her, Julian Crest was a monolith of charcoal tailoring and calculated intent. He didn't offer his arm; he took her hand, his palm rough and searing against her skin, and pulled her into the center of the gala’s suffocating opulence.

They hadn't taken three steps before Celeste Morrow intercepted them. Her smile was a jagged edge, her gaze flicking over Mara’s attire with the practiced cruelty of a woman who measured human worth by the carat.

“Julian, darling,” Celeste purred, her voice carrying just enough to draw the vultures in the nearby circle. “Su

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