The rain beat against the leaded glass windows of Aster Hall.

Inside the grand drawing room, the air smelled of damp stone and expensive French perfume.

I stood in the arched doorway, my wet leather boots clicking against the dark parquet floor.

Harrison did not look up immediately.

He was pouring amber liquid into a crystal tumbler, his fingers steady and pale.

Beside him stood Sloane Whitaker.

She wore the Celestia gown.

The silver-blue silk draped over her shoulders, catching the dim light of the brass chandeliers.

It was the dress my late mother, Clara, had commissioned for me before her heart failed.

Now, it belonged to Harrison’s mistress.

“You look comfortable in my mother’s house, Sloane,” I said.

Sloane froze, her glass stopping halfway to her painted red lips.

Harrison set the crystal decanter down with a dull, heavy thud.

“Vivian,” Harrison said, his voice smooth and entirely empty of warmth. “You should have phoned before driving out from the city in this weather.”

“And miss this?” I asked.

I walked further into the room, my wool coat dripping water onto the Persian rug.

The silk of the dress rustled as Sloane stepped back, shifting her weight uneasily.

“It is just a dress, Vivian,” Sloane said, lifting her chin to show her long throat. “Harrison gave it to me for the charity gala.”

“It was never his to give,” a voice said from behind me.

Matteo stepped into the drawing room.

He wore his heavy gray coat, his fingers still stained with the dark blue dye from his workshop.

His sharp eyes were fixed on the silver-blue fabric.

“That gown was custom-cut for the Bennett family,” Matteo said. “Every single seam was measured for Vivian.”

“Get this tailor out of my house,” Harrison said, his eyes narrowing to thin slits.

“This is my house, Harrison,” I said. “And Matteo has every right to be here.”

Beatrice, Harrison’s mother, appeared from the shadow of the grand fireplace, her face like carved gray marble.

“Do not make a vulgar scene, Vivian,” Beatrice said, her voice dropping an octave. “Think of the Ashford name.”

“The Ashford name does not concern me anymore,” I said. “And neither does your debt.”