The ballroom of the embassy smelled of expensive lilies and old money. Crystal chandeliers cast a fractured, amber light over the crowd, turning the gathering of diplomats and heirs into a shimmering blur of silk and champagne.
Cassian stood at the edge of the perimeter, his back against a marble pillar. He wore a black suit that felt like armor, the fabric tight across his shoulders, his eyes scanning the room with a rhythmic, practiced precision.
He didn't watch the politicians. He watched the exits. He watched the hands of the servers. And he watched Lyra.
She stood in the center of a circle of laughing suitors, a glass of vintage Bollinger held loosely in her hand. She wore a dress of pale, iridescent silver that defied the dress code of the diplomatic corps.
The fabric was a whis
