The Thorne Industries Annual Philanthropic Gala was the crown jewel of New York’s high society season. It was a night of billion-dollar handshakes, blinding camera flashes, and ruthless social posturing.

Traditionally, Elara dreaded it. For the last three years, her role had been to wear whatever

The crystal chandeliers of the grand dining room cast a fractured, brilliant light over the gala, but Julian Thorne saw none of it. His vision had narrowed to a single, infuriating point: the sleek, emerald-green back of Elara’s tailored suit as she walked away from him.

The words echoed in his sk

The penthouse smelled nauseatingly of lavender and chamomile.

Elara stepped out of the guest bedroom, already dressed in a sharp, slate-grey blazer and tailored trousers. She paused at the top of the grand staircase, looking down into the sprawling living room. The space, once a testament to Elara