We walked up the grand stone steps.

The heavy oak double doors were opened by two startled security guards.

Vance flashed his federal badge before they could speak.

“Federal agents,” Vance said. “Step aside.”

We walked into the grand foyer, our wet shoes squeaking on the polished marble.

The sound of a live string quartet drifted from the ballroom.

It was accompanied by the low hum of polite laughter and clinking glasses.

We moved through the arched entryway into the main hall.

The room was massive, decorated with gold leaf, towering ice sculptures, and crystal chandeliers.

At the far end of the room stood Eleanor Thorne.

She wore a silver silk gown, her diamonds catching the light as she spoke to a group of local politicians.

Julian stood beside her, looking sharp in a tailored tuxedo.

His eyes scanned the room with his usual restless arrogance.

Gareth was near the bar, holding a half-empty glass of amber liquid.

The moment Vance and the six armed agents stepped into the room, the music died.

The violinist’s bow scraped against the strings, creating a sharp, discordant screech.