The chandelier trembled when he stepped onto the ballroom stage, all tailored elegance and cold charisma. Every eye turned—from the champagne flutes to the security detail scanning for threats. But I knew this wasn’t about safety. It was about me.

"Eleanor Voss," Lucien Vale said, voice cutting through the music, "will you marry me?"

Laughter died. Glasses froze mid-sip. My fingers went numb around my clutch. I hadn’t seen him before tonight. Had never spoken to him. And yet here he stood, offering a ring worth more than most countries’ GDP—and a trap dressed as salvation.

Across the room, Damien watched, smiling like a man who’d already won. This was his doing. A setup. A way to humiliate me further by forcing me to beg for relevance.

But Lucien didn’t look triumphant. He looked… expectant.

Like he knew exactly who I was.

And what I’d do next.