Julian Thorne’s estate was not a home; it was a fortress of glass, steel, and shadow, perched on a cliffside overlooking the churning black waters of the bay. As his sleek town car glided through the wrought-iron security gates, Clara Vance stared out the tinted window, her heart hammering a frantic

The grandfather clock in the distant hallway chimed two a.m., but Clara’s mind was moving too fast to register the exhaustion pulling at her bones.

The studio was littered with paper. Dozens of sketches covered the massive desk, intricate webs of graphite and ink detailing necklaces, bracelets, an

The reflection staring back at Clara Vance in the floor-to-ceiling mirror did not look like a ghost-designer who had spent the last three years covered in graphite dust and polishing compound.

She looked like a weapon.

The gown Julian had arranged for her was a masterpiece of midnight-blue silk