The first thing I remember about the morning my marriage was supposed to end is throwing up into a silver trash can while the divorce papers waited unsigned ten feet away.

By Friday evening, Lake Forest was under a blanket of heavy snow, and the grand Cross estate felt less like a home and more like an armed garrison.

Dorian had tripled the guard. Black SUVs patrolled the perimeter road every twenty minutes, their headlights cutting through the swirling blizzard. Yet, despite the invisible war brewing in the shadows, the social calendar of Chicago’s elite didn’t stop—and Dorian, infuriatingly, refused to let us hide.

“If we skip the Symphony Gala, it signals weakness,” Dorian said, adjusting his black silk bowtie in the full-length mirror of our dressing room. “In this city, weakness invites the wolves faster than blood.”

“I’m six weeks pregnant and exhausted,” I said, sitting at the vanity while Elena pinned my hair into an intricate updo. I wore an emerald green velvet gown that hugged my curves, high-necked and deceptively modest, though the slit up the left leg showed enough skin to turn heads. “I don’t want to sip sparkling water while people whisper about our miraculous reconciliation.”

Dorian walked over, resting his hands on my bare shoulders. The reflection in the mirror showed the striking contrast between us: me, pale and delicate in green velvet; him, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, an apex predator wrapped in an Italian tuxedo.

“They won't whisper,” Dorian murmured, leaning down to press a kiss against the curve of my neck. “Because if anyone says a word that displeases you, I will ruin their portfolio by midnight.”

“You are impossible.”

“I am your husband.” He met my gaze in the glass. “Drink only what Nikolai hands you tonight. Do not accept a glass from a waiter. Do not leave the ballroom without me. If I am talking to the mayor, you stay at my elbow. Understood?”

“Understood, warden.”

The gala at the Palmer House was a spectacle of champagne towers, diamond necklaces, and fake smiles. When we entered through the grand ballroom doors, the chatter died down for a fraction of a second—just enough to let us know that our entrance had been noticed.

Dorian kept his hand firmly on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. Men who controlled billions of dollars stepped aside to clear our path, offering cautious nods. Women who had undoubtedly tried to circle Dorian during our six-month separation cast venomous glares at my dress, but none dared approach without an invitation.

“Dorian, Clara, my dear! You look positively radiant!”

The voice belonged to Harrison Bell, an aging shipping magnate who had long been an ally of Dorian’s father. Standing beside him was his daughter, Cecelia—a woman who had made no secret of her desire to become the next Mrs. Cross the second the divorce rumors hit the papers.

“Harrison,” Dorian said smoothly, taking the older man’s hand. “You’re looking well.”

“We heard the rumors of... turbulence,” Harrison said delicately, his eyes darting between us. “Delighted to see they were exaggerated.”

“Completely fabricated,” Dorian lied without blinking. “My wife needed some time out of the public eye to rest. We have exciting developments ahead.”

Cecelia smiled, though her eyes were cold as ice. “Really? A new venture, Clara?”

“Something like that,” I answered politely, feeling the fluttering nausea in my stomach begin to churn again. The smell of heavy perfumes, cigar smoke, and roasted meats in the room was suffocating.

A waiter in a white jacket approached, carrying a silver tray with crystal flutes of champagne and sparkling water garnished with lime.

“Refreshment, ma’am?” the waiter offered, bowing slightly.

I reached out out of pure reflex, my throat parched.

Before my fingers could touch the glass, Dorian caught my wrist in mid-air.

The entire circle went silent.

Dorian didn’t look at me; his eyes were fixed on the waiter. The young man had dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and hands that were slightly too calloused for a banquet server.

“Who hired you for tonight’s event?” Dorian asked, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying timbre that preceded violence.

The waiter swallowed hard. “The... the catering agency, sir. Drake Staffing.”

“Drake Staffing uses blue trim on their lapels for gala events,” Dorian said evenly. “Your trim is black. Nikolai.”

In an instant, the air in the ballroom shifted. Nikolai materialized from the crowd like a wraith, stepping up behind the server.

The fake waiter panicked. He dropped the tray—glasses shattering on the parquet floor with a deafening crash—and reached into his inner jacket pocket.

He never made it.

Dorian lunged forward with blinding speed. He caught the man’s right wrist, twisting it violently downward until the sickening *crack* of breaking bone echoed above the classical quartet’s music. A small glass vial dropped from the man’s limp fingers, rolling harmlessly across the marble.

Screams erupted from the high-society crowd. Cecelia gasped, stumbling backward into her father.

Dorian drove the man to his knees, his knee buried in the small of the server’s back, his hand wrapped around the back of his neck. Dorian didn’t look flushed or out of breath; his face was a mask of cold, methodical execution.

“Nikolai, take him to the basement garage,” Dorian commanded calmly, as if he were ordering a side of beef. “Find out who paid him. If he stops breathing before he gives a name, you will answer for it.”

“Understood, boss,” Nikolai said, dragging the groaning man through the service exit before hotel security could even react.

Dorian stood up, brushing off his lapel. The ballroom was frozen in terror. Hundreds of eyes were glued to the man who had just casually broken an assassin’s arm in the middle of a Mozart symphony.

Dorian turned to me. The violence vanished from his eyes, replaced instantly by frantic, suffocating concern. He cupped my face in his large hands, ignoring the shattered glass around our feet.

“Did you touch the glass?” he demanded, his voice shaking. “Clara. Did you drink anything?”

“No,” I whispered, trembling from shock. “No, Dorian, I didn't.”

He let out a ragged breath, pulling me against his chest right in front of the entire elite of Chicago. He wrapped his arms around me so tightly I could feel the cold metal of his hidden sidearm pressing through his tuxedo.