You’d been cornered—trapped, really—by a man who introduced himself as Julian Ashford the Third. His smile was too white, his handshake too firm, and his conversational repertoire limited to quarterly dividends and the provenance of his cufflinks.

A sudden, jarring collision. A body, solid and warm, slammed into your back. Your balance shattered. The crystal flute in your hand slipped, and the world tilted into a slow, graceless arc.

You hit the marble floor hard, the impact jarring through your palms and knees. A cold, wet stain bloomed across the front of your thousand-dollar dress—a deep, unforgiving Cabernet red.

Gasps rippled through the nearby cluster of guests. Julian Ashford the Third stared down at you, his perfect mouth hanging open in stunned, useless horror.

You looked up, blinking past the sting of the fall.

There was a figure standing over you, equally off-balance, an empty wine glass clutched in their hand. The chandelier light was behind them, casting their face in shadow.