The drive to the Navy Yards was suffocatingly quiet, wrapped in the kind of heavy, electric tension that precedes a lightning strike.

Clara sat in the back of Victor’s armored SUV, watching the blurred city lights reflect in the rain-slicked window. The skyline of Manhattan—the very empire her gra

Julian stopped dead in his tracks. His smug smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting from Clara’s cold, unblinking gaze down to the matte-black muzzle of the gun pointed at his sternum.

Then, incredibly, he laughed.

It was that same patronizing, breathy chuckle he always used

The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and the suffocating perfume of the city’s most elite socialites. The Thorne family’s annual charity gala was meant to be the social event of the season. Tonight, however, it was designed to be a coronation.