The studio smelled of paint and nerves.
The set had been transformed into a glittering ballroom—chandeliers hung low, marble columns painted into existence, extras dressed in sequins and tuxedos. To the cameras, it would look like a fairytale. To Aurora Sage, it was a trap.
She scanned the space with trained eyes, ignoring the fake elegance, searching instead for exits, vantage points, and blind corners. Every time the lighting rig flickered, every time a staff member walked too close with a headset and clipboard, her muscles coiled, ready to strike.
The photo from the night before was carved into her mind: Logan, smiling on a street corner, caught in a crosshair's gaze. Someone had been close enough to pull the trigger—and hadn't. Not yet.
Aurora hated waiting for enemies to move.
Logan, on the other hand, seemed unbothered.
