The champagne flute shatters in my hand as the gunshot echoes through the ballroom. Guests scream, diving under tables, but I don’t move. My tuxedo sleeve darkens with blood, not from the bullet—but from gripping the shard of glass too tight. Across the room, Dawson stands motionless, smoke curling from the pistol in his hand. Our eyes lock. No shock. No rage. Just sorrow, and something worse: understanding.

'I knew you’d come back,' he says, voice low, cutting through the chaos. 'I just didn’t think you’d wear someone else’s face.'

The plan was simple: marry the target, confirm allegiance, then eliminate him during the post-wedding retreat. But nothing prepared me for this—the way his gaze holds mine like a lover wronged, not a king betrayed.

He lowers the gun. 'They’re coming for both of us now. Rook knows everything. If you want answers about who really died that night… you’ll have to stop pretending to be him.'

My pulse hammers. Trust him? Run? Or pull my own weapon and end this now?