The grand ballroom of the Royal Sapphire Hotel shimmered with crystal chandeliers and the low hum of elite conversation. Ember moved through the crowd like a shadow slipping between flashes of light, her emerald-green dinner gown clinging to every curve. The plunging neckline dipped dangerously low, the slit up her thigh revealing smooth, toned skin with every calculated step. Diamonds dripped from her ears and throat, catching the light with each turn of her head. She was the fiancée of Alexander Knight—the most powerful man in the capital—yet her dark, smoldering gaze was fixed on something far more intoxicating than politics and champagne. A stolen keycard weighed heavy in her palm as she slipped away from the reception, heels clicking softly against marble before fading into the plush carpet of the private hallway. Suite 47 awaited at the end—a sanctuary of sin hidden behind gilded doors. She didn’t knock. The door opened silently, sealing shut behind her with a whisper. The suite was bathed in the dim, golden glow of a single bedside lamp, its light barely reaching the edges of the room. The air smelled of expensive cologne and something darker—something primal. And there he was. Broad shoulders stretched beneath a tailored black suit, his back to her, his silhouette carved from pure temptation. Dark hair, slightly tousled, grazed the nape of his neck. His stance was relaxed, yet there was a coiled tension in him, as if he’d been waiting—knowing she’d come. Ember let out a slow breath, her pulse throbbing in her throat. Without a word, she stepped forward, her fingers trailing up his spine before gripping the back of his collar, nails scraping lightly. "You’re late," he murmured, his voice rough velvet. She pressed herself against him, her breasts flush against his back, her lips grazing the shell of her ear. "You knew I’d come." A low chuckle rumbled through him. He turned suddenly, catching her wrist, spinning her so her back was against the wall. The impact was soft but deliberate, his body caging her in. Up close, he was devastating—sharp jaw dusted with stubble, lips full and sinful, eyes like smoldering coal. His gaze raked over her, lingering on the exposed swell of her breasts, the way her dress hugged her waist. "Alexander’s fiancée," he mused, thumb tracing her bottom lip. "Shouldn’t you be playing the dutiful bride-to-be?" She smirked, catching his thumb between her teeth, biting just hard enough to make his breath hitch. "I’d rather play with you." That was all the invitation he needed. His mouth crashed down on hers, hot and demanding, swallowing her gasp. His hands slid down her body, gripping her hips before hiking up the slit of her dress, fingers skimming bare skin. She arched into him, nails digging into his shoulders as his lips trailed down her throat, teeth grazing her collarbone. "Off," he growled against her skin, tugging at the thin straps of her gown. She didn’t need telling twice. The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but lace and defiance. His eyes darkened, hunger flaring as he took her in—every curve, every breathless inch. Then he was on her again, hands everywhere, mouth claiming hers like a man starved. She fumbled with his belt, desperate, her own need a wildfire burning through her veins. The bed was close. They never made it. He lifted her effortlessly, pressing her against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist. The first thrust stole her breath, her head falling back as pleasure seared through her. His name spilled from her lips like a prayer, a curse, a promise. And as the engagement party carried on below, oblivious, Ember let herself drown in the sin they created—the kind of pleasure that left marks, the kind that could ruin everything. And she loved it. The world outside Suite 47 ceased to exist—there was only the heat of their bodies, the slick slide of skin, the ragged breaths mingling between desperate kisses. Every thrust was a claim, every gasp a surrender. Ember’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, as if she could fuse them together. His lips found her throat again, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, a brand. Let Alexander see*, she thought wildly. *Let him know. Pleasure coiled tight in her core, burning hotter with every movement, every whispered curse against her skin. She was close—so close—teetering on the edge. "Look at me," he demanded, voice rough with need. Her eyes fluttered open, locking onto his. In that moment, she was laid bare—no secrets, no lies, just raw, untamed hunger. Then he moved just so, and she shattered. A cry tore from her lips as the wave crashed over her, white-hot and all-consuming. He followed with a groan, his forehead pressed to hers, their bodies trembling together in the aftermath. For a long moment, there was only silence, broken by their ragged breaths. Slowly, he eased her down, her legs unsteady as her heels hit the carpet. Ember traced the stubble along his jaw, her smirk returning, even as her heart still raced. "Still think I should be playing dutiful fiancée?" He caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm. "I think," he murmured, "you’re going to be the death of me." She laughed, low and wicked, before bending to retrieve her dress. The party still hummed below, the charade still intact. But as she slipped back into the hallway, adjusting her diamonds and smoothing her hair, she knew one thing for certain—this was far from over.

The dim glow of Alexander’s phone screen cast sharp shadows across his face as he stared, again, at the grainy surveillance footage. Ember’s emerald dress pooled at her feet, her body pressed against him—the man who had nearly ended Alexander’s life. The same man who had been assigned to pull the trigger. Two years. Two years since the ambush on him and his brothers. Two years since he’d watched this video for the first time, rage and betrayal carving into him like a blade. And now she was free. The whiskey in his glass remained untouched, ice long melted. Around him, the low hum of the bar’s patrons blurred into white noise. His brothers—Ezekiel, Khalid, and Baron—sat in brooding silence, their own drinks forgotten. Then his phone buzzed. Alexander didn’t react at first. His thumb hovered over the screen, the video paused on that moment—the exact second Ember’s lips met the traitor’s neck. Another buzz. With a slow, controlled exhale, he swiped to answer. "Speak." His assistant’s voice was clipped, urgent. "She’s out." Alexander’s grip tightened imperceptibly around the glass. "Tatiana Vargas picked her up. They left the prison in a black sedan. No plates." A beat of silence. Then— "Track them." He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The command was lethal in its calm. Across the table, Ezekiel’s sharp eyes flicked up. Khalid’s fingers stilled around his cigarette. Baron, the quietest of them all, leaned forward, his voice a low growl. "Problem?" Alexander set the phone down. The screen had gone dark, but the image was seared into his mind. "Ember’s free." The words landed like a detonation. Khalid’s cigarette snapped between his fingers. Ezekiel’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped. Baron simply exhaled, slow and deliberate, his gaze locking onto Alexander’s with a silent question. What now? Alexander stood, his movements deliberate, controlled. He tossed a wad of cash onto the table—far more than the tab required. "Now," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "we need to find her."