CHAPTER SEVEN

The city glimmered like spilled jewels beneath the ink-black night. Lights shimmered on the slick, rain-polished streets, neon signs bleeding color into puddles. The hum of traffic was a distant murmur, a background to the steady pulse of my own heart.

I sat in the back of my car, my fingers idly tracing the seam of my midnight-blue silk gown, the fabric pooling like liquid against my skin. The drive had been silent, save for the low hum of classical strings playing through the speakers — something mournful and achingly beautiful. And if I were honest, it fit too well. This night felt like something on the edge of a story you already knew would hurt.

The car eased to a stop.

I glanced out the tinted window, expecting the soft glow of chandeliers, the steady chatter of an exclusive dining terrace, perhaps the clink of wine glasses — something typical, expected. Instead, what met my gaze made my breath catch.

A grand theater.

Its facade was opulence frozen in time. Towering Cor