The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of L'Etoile, casting long, harsh shadows across the empty dining room. The chairs were stacked. The white linen tablecloths had been stripped away. On the front glass doors, taped securely from the inside, was the bright yellow notice of

The rain was a torrential downpour, drumming heavily against the reinforced glass of the penthouse suite at the Sterling-Vance Plaza. Inside, however, the world was insulated, quiet, and impossibly beautiful.

Clara stood before a full-length gilded mirror, the heavy silk of her wedding gown cascad

One year later.

The kitchen of *Vance* was a symphony of perfectly orchestrated chaos. It was not the frantic, screaming, terror-filled environment that Julian Thorne used to run. Here, there was only the rhythmic chopping of knives, the sharp hiss of searing pans, and the clear, precise calls of