Chapter 17. Flashpoint

The invitation gleamed with gold foil, each letter painstakingly handwritten, impossible to ignore. It announced the Grayville Hearts Gala: black-tie, charity auction, media swarm guaranteed. There was no option to decline, no casual way to slip away. This was performance in its most ruthless form, a meticulously choreographed promise that every step, every smile, every glance would be catalogued under harsh lights and merciless lenses.

That afternoon, Evelyn arrived quietly, moving through the soft hush of Alyssa’s bedroom with the composure of someone delivering verdicts. She laid the gown on the foot of the bed—emerald silk that caught the light like liquid jewel—and met Alyssa’s eyes in the dim glow. Her expression was unreadable; her voice, when it came, was low and measured.

“Valentina sent this from Milan,” she said. “Custom-fit. Hand-stitched. Designed for impact.” She let the words hang between them as she straightened her spine and turned away, leaving Alyssa a