Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across the endless stretch of the table—a river of polished mahogany lined with silver and Venetian glass. This was the inner circle of the Ashford Syndicate, a gathering where pleasantries were considered weakness and every gesture carried the weight of a blood oath. There were no innocents here. Only predators and prey.
And I had been placed beside Giorgio.
He reached for me, his hand closing around my wrist with practiced ease, drawing me closer as though we were truly the blessed couple our families had proclaimed us to be. The gesture was seamless, rehearsed—a performance for the watching eyes.
In that moment, an absurd thought drifted through my mind like smoke.
If I disappeared right now—if I simply ceased to exist—would anyone at this table even notice my absence?
What followed was not grief.
It was clarity, cold and absolute, arriving at the most inconvenient hour.
Why should I have to endure all of this?