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