THE YACHT DOCKED with a hushed bump against the pier, and the world shifted.
For Mailah, the air itself seemed to thicken, charged with an energy that raised the fine hairs on her arms.
She clutched her purse a little tighter, fingers stiff around its jeweled strap. Grayson was beside her, tall and unflinching, his hand still at the small of her back in a gesture that was both guiding and proprietary.
The Ashford Manor loomed ahead, bathed in golden light, its towers piercing the dark sky like sharpened spears.
The stone gleamed with ivy laced in faintly shimmering silver, and every lantern along the pier burned steady, as though the flames had been trained to obey.
Mailah could hear laughter spilling faintly from the open windows, the chiming notes of a string quartet threaded with the rise and fall of many voices.
Her throat went dry.
This wasn't just a home. It was a spectacle.
A fortress dressed in beauty. A stage where every performance carried consequences.
