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I make my way toward the refreshment table, weaving through clusters of guests who smell like wealth and ambition, their designer perfume mingling with the aroma of buttered hors d'oeuvres and truffle canapés.

The food, at least, is divine.

I pluck a mini beef Wellington from a silver tray and pop it into my mouth, savoring the perfect balance of flaky pastry, tender meat, and a hint of rich red wine sauce. A waiter passes with another tray—fig and goat cheese crostini drizzled with honey—and I don't hesitate to grab one. If I'm going to survive an evening full of elaborately hidden threats and ex-girlfriend dramatics, I'm at least going to do it on a full stomach.

Just as I finish my second bite, a familiar voice purrs from behind me.

"Ava Bennett, mingling with the one percent? Be still my heart."

I turn to find Marina Worthington, socialite, heiress, and a high-end scandal waiting to happen. She's draped in a ruby-red gown, her signature diamonds glinting at her throat, and her expression is the perfect balance of mischief and thinly veiled amusement.

"Oh, you know me, Marina," I say airily, dabbing my mouth with a linen napkin. "I thrive in morally gray spaces."

She grins, taking a sip of her champagne. "Clearly. I've already had three people ask me if you and Liam are serious-serious or just for fun—and one of them was my mother."

I roll my eyes. "Tell your mother I'll send her a full relationship report in the morning."

Marina lets out a low laugh, tilting her head. "Oh, I don't need convincing, darling. But the old money crowd? They like their romances with a little less scandal."

"And you like them with a little more."

She chuckles heartily. "Guilty."

A breeze of movement in my periphery catches my attention. I glance toward the entrance of the ballroom, my stomach tightening when I see Liam cutting through the crowd, his expression unreadable, his tux crisp and effortless, his presence unmistakably sharp.

Marina follows my gaze, her lips curving like she already knows where my thoughts are going. "Speak of the devil."

"Please," I mutter, eyes still locked on Liam. "The devil wishes he had that jawline."

She chokes on a laugh just as Liam reaches me, his hand light but possessive against the small of my back.

He leans in, his voice low and meant only for me.

"Something's wrong."

The easy buzz of champagne and gossip evaporates in an instant. "What do you mean?"

His gaze flickers over my shoulder, scanning the room. "I think we've been set up."

My spine stiffens. Marina, sensing the shift in energy, raises a brow but wisely steps back, excusing herself with a murmured, "Don't get kidnapped, darling."

I turn to Liam, keeping my expression neutral as I take another slow sip of champagne. "Tell me."

His hand presses slightly firmer against my back, a silentstay close.

15

LIAM

There's a problem.

I know it the way I know when a deal is about to go sideways—the air shifts, the energy tightens, and suddenly, every instinct I have is screaming at me to get out as quickly as possible.

Only this time, it's not my bank account or a business deal on the line. It's Ava.

I keep my expression neutral as I scan the room, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back, guiding her away from the refreshment table and deeper into the crowd. It's a delicate balance—making sure she doesn't pick up on my tension while also staying close enough to shut down whatever the hell is about to happen.

The gala thrums around us—laughter, the clink of champagne flutes, the sharp murmur of society gossip dressed up in silk and diamonds. On the surface, it's just another night of excess in North Hill. But beneath it?