Chapter Eight: Amara Voss

A few months had passed, but time had not dulled the edge of Elara’s hunger. If anything, it had sharpened it into something lethal. The scars had healed, erased by a surgeon’s artistry so complete that the mirror no longer reflected a survivor, it reflected someone new. Amara Voss. Her voice was more audible now—still very low like a whisper with a rasp. She made peace with it. Her whole life changed, she lost her son, her voice was the last thing she was heartbroken about. She had practiced the name until it slid from her lips without hesitation, until even in her own head she stopped hearing Elara Monroe. That woman had been broken, scarred, silenced. Amara Voss was flawless, radiant, confident and untouchable.

And tonight, she was going to make the world believe it.

Damien had stayed behind in Italy, his motives still veiled in smoke and shadows. He was an enigma. He had given her everything—money, access, a pedigree built from carefully forged documents and whispered recommendations in high places. It was all polished and undeniable. Even the most suspicious would find no cracks. She had asked him once why he helped her, but his answer had been nothing more than a half-smile and silence. One day, she would rip the truth from him. But not tonight. Tonight, the fish she meant to gut were much closer.

The ballroom gleamed like a temple to vanity. Crystal chandeliers spilled light over marble floors and mirrored walls. Waiters in tuxedos moved like chess pieces across the board, carrying trays of champagne. And at the center of it all: Ethan and Sienna Cade—yes, they were now legally married—standing hand in hand, hosts of the evening’s charity ball, the golden couple untouchable in their designer sheen.

They hadn’t recognized her yet. How could they? Her cheekbones had been sharpened, her skin unblemished, her lips fuller, her hair a cascade of dark waves carefully styled into elegance. She was Amara now, and Amara drew eyes for all the right reasons. Heads turned as she entered, her gown liquid silk in midnight blue, clinging and flowing at once. A diamond bracelet winked at her wrist, one Damien had sent in a black velvet box with no note. Power never needed words.

Amara moved through the crowd like she belonged. No—like she owned it. She smiled at strangers, brushed fingers against champagne flutes, let laughter escape at all the right places. Subtle. That was the key. She could not storm into their kingdom; she had to be welcomed, admired, whispered about. So she left a trail of curiosity, the kind of presence people wanted to know, wanted to name.

Near the silent auction table, she paused. One of the items: a limited-edition vintage watch, the kind Ethan favored. She lifted the pen, signed her name with a graceful flourish, and didn’t flinch when heads tilted to catch it.

Amara Voss.

The ink was still wet when murmurs started. A stranger who could write numbers high enough to outbid the city’s richest. A name no one knew. That was how you drew predators. By bleeding gold into the water.

Across the room, Ethan noticed first. His eyes flickered to the card, then to the woman standing beside it. He was trained in the art of calculation—his gaze lingered, assessing and narrowing. He leaned toward Sienna, murmured something, and her smile faltered just slightly as she followed his gaze.

Amara met their eyes across the ballroom. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough.

Then she looked away, as though they were insignificant.

The hook set.

Sienna touched Ethan’s arm, her posture shifting into alertness. They spoke in low tones, but Amara could read body language better than she ever could words. Suspicion. Curiosity. Control. Ethan glanced again, his expression tightening, and then he gestured to two men near the bar. Subtle as smoke, the men began circling. Eyes trained on her. She was marked now.

Perfect.

She drifted toward the gallery wing, pausing to admire a painting as though she cared more about brushstrokes than about the fire beginning to pulse in her chest. A reflection in the glass showed Sienna breaking from Ethan, her dress a shimmering silver, her smile honed to a weapon. Sienna moved like a queen who had never known defeat.

Amara’s hand curled at her side. She remembered—God, she remembered—Sienna’s grip on Milo’s arm, the cruel laughter as she dragged him, the scream torn from his throat as he was hurled off the cliff. She had replayed it a thousand times in her head, every detail carved into her ribs like scripture.

Her heart thundered now, but her face remained smooth and unyielding. Amara Voss could not crack. Elara Monroe could not bleed through. Not yet.

She had to do this.

She had to pull through and be put together for her son.

Her Milo.

Sienna stopped beside her, perfume sharp and sweet, smile practiced to perfection.

“Hello,” she said.

The single word was a match hovering over gasoline.