The Gathering
The night of the Prime Minister's reception was one of those evenings meant to remind the city of its own grandeur.
Cabs and motorcars lined the boulevard; crystal chandeliers blazed against the darkness; and everywhere, the hum of power moved like a pulse.
Inside, the air was perfumed with ambition.
Serena Maxwell entered on Christopher Cross's arm.
It was the first time they appeared together since the conservatory — the first time she had allowed herself to stand beside him in public, without mask or apology.
She had told herself it was strategic, that her presence beside the Minister of Justice would silence the whispers and lend strength to Leonard's case.
But as the room quieted at their arrival, she knew better.
This wasn't strategy — this was surrender written in silk and candlelight.
Christopher was devastating in his simplicity: dark coat, immaculate tie, eyes the color of polished jade.
