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I turned to the mirror, my breath catching slightly.
Damn.
The dress was obscene.
It clung to every inch of me, dipping low in the front, hugging my waist, falling like liquid metal over my hips. The slit was dangerous, slicing high up my thigh, a promise of scandal if I moved too fast. It was temptation stitched into fabric.
And Marcus Dane had picked it for me.
Heat licked up my spine.
Diego, sensing my weakness, grinned. “You have to wear it.”
I met his gaze in the mirror.
Yeah.
I did.
12
MARCUS
The night was alive with the buzz of Charleston’s elite spilling into Dominion Hall. Guests arrived early—too early—like they were afraid to miss a single second of this rare crack in our armor. The best, brightest, and richest the city’s got swarmed through the gates, all dolled up in masks and tuxes, dripping with old money and desperation to be seen.
I caught glimpses—senators with tight smiles, oil tycoons with cigars already lit, heiresses in gowns that cost more than most people’s houses. Even the officer cadre from The Citadel strutted in, all crisp uniforms and polished brass, acting like they owned the place. I can’t stand those pricks—too much ego, not enough scars. They talk war like it’s a game they’ve mastered from textbooks.
Fucking clowns.
I lingered near the door, arms crossed, leaning against the cold stone of the foyer. The chandelier overhead glinted like a guillotine waiting to drop, casting sharp shadows over the crowd. I watched newcomers—tracked who was who, who was kissing whose ass—but mostly, I watched for her.
Claire Dixon.
She was the real prize tonight, the wild card in this rigged game. The trap was set, the bait was dangling, and I was itching to see how she played it.
That silver dress I’d sent her—fuck, I hoped she was wearing it. I wanted her walking in here, turning heads, knowing I picked it out just to mess with her.
The air shifted. Whispers rippled through the room, heads turning like a wave. I felt it before I saw her—a prickle down my spine, that hunter’s instinct kicking in. Then she was there, stepping through the arched doorway, and goddamn, she didn’t disappoint.
Claire was in the silver dress, and it was a fucking knockout punch.
The fabric clung to her like liquid metal, dipping low over her chest, hugging her waist, sliding over hips I’d been imagining under my hands since that kiss. The slit up her thigh flashed skin with every step—dangerous, deliberate, a dare to anyone dumb enough to look too long. Her blonde hair was swept up, a few strands loose, framing those gray eyes that cut through the room like a blade. A mask—black, simple, sharp—dangled from her fingers, not on yet, like she was too stubborn to play by the rules.
Everyone was staring, whispering behind gloved hands and crystal flutes. She blushed—actually blushed—and it was the first crack I’d seen in that New York steel.
She wasn’t alone. Some handsome bastard was on her arm—tall, dark hair, sharp cheekbones, dressed in a linen suit that screamed money and confidence.
Diego Gil, her producer.
I’d done my homework. Read up on him the second I caught wind he was flying down. Gay, sharp as hell, and here to keep an eye on her. I could respect that. Hell, I might even like him for it.
I cut through the crowd, a straight line to them, ignoring the murmurs and the hands reaching for me. Claire’s eyes locked on mine, narrowing just a fraction, like she was bracing for whatever I was about to throw. Diego was watching, too, head tilted, a smirk tugging at his lips. I stuck out my hand to him first—deliberate, pointed.
“Diego Gil,” I said, voice low, grin sharp. “Marcus Dane. Pleasure.”
His brows lifted, pleasantly surprised, and he took my hand, grip firm. “Well, I’ll be. You’ve done your research.”
“Always do,” I said, letting go, glancing at Claire. She glared at me, lips pressed tight, and I smiled wider. “Wouldn’t want to be rude to Claire’s plus-one.”