Collision Course
The air in the Thorne Hotel ballroom was a pressurized mixture of expensive lilies, chilled champagne, and the suffocating scent of impending ruin. Elena stood at the edge of the dais, her spine a rigid line of forced composure. Beside her, Julian Thorne was a monolith of charcoal wool and calculated silence. He was the architect of this charade, yet as he scanned the room, his gaze lacked its usual predatory focus. It was distra
Preview ends here. Subscribe to continue.