The power discussions happening in discrete clusters, voices lowered but body language screaming importance. Isabella Harrington holding court near the champagne fountain, her dress showcasing assets that had probably toppled governments. Diana Beaumont moving through the crowd like controlled violence in designer shoes, every gesture calculated for maximum diplomatic impact.
The supernatural guards stationed throughout the ballroom, their alert postures suggesting they were waiting for something that hadn't happened yet. Their whispered communications carried undertones that made the air itself feel electric with anticipation.
And there, near the center of it all, was the bastard himself.
At the top of the stairs, she paused, her hands gripping the ornate railing as she looked down into the ballroom below. Five hundred of the world's most powerful people moved through conversations that sparkled like champagne and carried the weight of global politics.
