The gala was a sea of shimmering silk and practiced laughter, a place where words were sharpened like rapiers and hidden behind the rim of crystal flutes. Clara hated it. She felt like a pressed flower in a room full of hothouse orchids, functional, muted, and entirely out of place.

She smoothed the fabric of her navy dress, a simple thing that felt far too humble for the gilded ballroom of the Van Doren estate. Beside her, her brother-in-law, Elijah, moved with the easy grace of a man born to inheritance. He was a kindness in this room, a tether to the family she had married into, but even his presence couldn’t shield her from the man who had been cornering her for the last ten minutes.