Aria's POV
"Are you sure about this?" Damon's voice was low, sharp, like the edge of a blade sliding against my skin.
I froze halfway through adjusting the silk strap of my gown in the mirror. "About what?"
His eyes flicked to the embossed invitation card in his hand. The Gala. Marcus's perfect, golden script gleamed in the candlelight of our suite.
"About walking into that ballroom knowing Marcus has planned this entire show. He doesn't throw parties without sharpening knives under the table."
My throat tightened. I knew Damon was right. Marcus never did anything without a hidden agenda. But this gala wasn't optional—it was mandatory.
Marcus had insisted Damon oversee the printing, distribution, and management of every single invitation. Family, friends, shareholders, board members—all summoned into one glittering cage.
"I don't have a choice," I whispered. "Neither do you. Neither does Lila."
