THE AIR INSIDE THE MANOR was thick with perfume and power.
Mailah swore she could taste it—cloying, like honey laced with something metallic.
She leaned closer into Grayson's side, not because she wanted to, but because she couldn't stop herself. His presence anchored her when everything else felt like a dream that could turn nightmare at any moment.
A string quartet struck up again somewhere in the ballroom ahead.
Laughter rose, brittle, sharp, as if the very walls demanded merriment. Servers glided past, silver trays floating at wrist height without ever being touched, each glass glittering with amber or ruby liquid that pulsed faintly, alive.
She whispered, "This doesn't feel like a party. It feels like a test."
Grayson's lips curved at the edge, his voice brushing her ear. "That's because it is."
Her stomach dropped.
