The note from Christopher Cross arrived before sunset — brief, immaculate, and impossible to ignore.
St. Ives Club. Eight o'clock. Wear blue.
—C.
It was the third time he had escorted her publicly.
But this night was different.
This wasn't another concert, another polite gathering for gossip to feed on. This was the dinner — the one where policy and power danced together beneath chandeliers, where reputations were sharpened and futures undone in the flick of a minister's smile.
The kind of event, Serena thought grimly, where one misstep could turn survival into spectacle.
She stood before the mirror in her room, watching the reflection of a woman she wasn't sure she recognized anymore. The sapphire silk of her gown clung to her like dusk — high-necked but luminous, understated in cut yet regal in the way it caught the light. Emily had helped pin her hair, sleek and soft, with only a single strand of pearls threaded through.
