The smell of wet ash and charred wood hung heavy in the damp morning air, a bitter perfume that coated the back of Clara Vance’s throat.

She stood in the service alley behind *L’Étoile*, staring at the yellow fireline tape crisscrossing the heavy steel doors. The exterior of the building looked re

The interior of the Maybach was a sanctuary of soundproofed silence, smelling of rich leather and the faint, intoxicating scent of Victor Sterling’s cedarwood cologne.

Clara sat in the passenger seat, staring out the tinted windows as the chaotic, gray streets of Manhattan blurred past. It had bee

The Pierre Hotel ballroom was a monument to excess, dripping in crystal chandeliers and overflowing with imported white orchids. A jazz quartet played softly in the corner, their notes floating over the low, melodic hum of clinking champagne flutes and the sycophantic laughter of New York’s elite.