CHAPTER 5

Roxanne's POV

The heavy oak doors of the Grand Astoria Ballroom swung open with a soft, pneumatic hiss, releasing a low wave of muted chatter, classical string music, and the sharp scent of expensive champagne into the foyer.

I stood at the threshold, taking a slow, steadying breath that barely registered against the heavy corset of my midnight-blue silk gown. The dress was a custom piece that had arrived at Kiran’s penthouse suite barely two hours ago—a structural masterpiece of deep sapphire velvet and hand-stitched silver threading that molded to my frame like a second skin. Gone was the stained bio-hazard jumpsuit, the heavy rubber boots, and the raw stench of industrial bleach. In their place stood Mrs. Roxy Cross: polished, terrifyingly elegant, and draped in enough diamonds to fund a small municipal government.

Beside me, Kiran adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke charcoal tuxedo, his movements completely composed, radiating an aura of dangerous, untouchable authority. He didn't look down at me, but his left hand shifted subtly, his fingers sliding down to wrap firmly around my bare waist, pulling me flush against his side with proprietary precision.

"Remember your cue," Kiran murmured low against my temple, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the orchestra. "Smile, keep your spine straight, and let them choke on the surprise."

I didn't answer with words. I simply tilted my chin up, letting a cold, polite smile touch the corners of my lips—a mask of absolute composure hiding the razor-sharp tension coiled tight inside my chest.

Stepping into the ballroom felt like walking directly into the lion’s den.

The Grand Astoria was the beating heart of the city's high-society elite—a cavernous hall of crystal chandeliers, mirrored pillars, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline. Tonight’s charity gala was hosted by the Sterling foundation, an annual gathering where politicians, real estate tycoons, and corporate dynasties mingled to buy influence and toast to their own unassailable power.

Every head in our immediate vicinity turned as we crossed the threshold.

Whispers rippled instantly through the crowd like a current passing through live wires. Eyebrows shot up; champagne glasses paused halfway to parted lips. The sight of Kiran Cross attending a high-society Sterling function was already an anomaly—Kiran rarely deigned to step foot in rooms filled with people he considered legal parasites. But the identity of the woman on his arm triggered a collective, stunned silence.

Near the center of the room, standing beside a tier of champagne towers, was Victoria Sterling herself. She was breathtaking in a blinding ivory gown encrusted with pearls, her blonde hair swept up into an immaculate chignon. Beside her stood her father, patriarch of the Sterling empire, alongside a cluster of senior corporate executives who had signed off on the silent acquisitions that defined the family's brutal dominance.

Victoria’s gaze locked onto us first. Her bright, socialite smile froze instantly, her fingers tightening around the stem of her flute until her knuckles turned stark white.

I locked eyes with her across the crowded floor, refusing to flinch, letting every drop of the past forty-eight hours—the blood, the betrayal, the freezing rain, and the burning desire for absolute justice—concentrate into a single, unyielding stare.

Kiran’s hand tightened firmly against my waist, a grounding, electric anchor keeping me steady as we walked straight down the center aisle toward the main reception table. The sea of wealthy elites parted automatically before us, intimidated not just by Kiran's lethal reputation, but by the sheer, unreadable calculation etched into his face.

"Kiran," a smooth, forced voice broke through the quiet tension as we approached.

It was Victoria’s father, stepping forward with a practiced, politician’s smile that didn't quite reach his cold, calculating eyes. He extended a hand toward Kiran, completely ignoring my presence for a fraction of a second before his gaze flicked down to recognize the face standing beside the most dangerous fixer in the city. "This is an unexpected surprise. We didn't realize your firm was taking on social engagements this season... and certainly not with a guest of such unverified background."

The subtle jab hung in the air, a thinly veiled insult meant to remind everyone in earshot of my humble, working-class origins before my sudden disappearance from the city's registry.

Before Kiran could open his mouth, I stepped forward half an inch, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of the ballroom with crystal-clear precision.

"Backgrounds are easily checked, Mr. Sterling," I said smoothly, my tone light, honeyed, and dripping with an icy edge that made the older man’s smile falter. "Fortunately, some of us prefer to earn an honest living before marrying into families with... cleaner reputations."

A sharp intake of breath echoed from the group of executives standing behind him. Victoria took a jerky step forward, her face draining of all color as she stared at me with undisguised horror, recognizing the exact woman her brothers had been ordered to hunt down in the slums just two nights ago.

Kiran looked down at me, a flicker of genuine, dark amusement dancing in his eyes before he turned his cold, predatory gaze back to the stuttering patriarch of the Sterling empire.

"Allow me to introduce my wife, gentlemen," Kiran announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the entire silent hall. "Mrs. Roxy Cross. We were married this afternoon."

The last remnants of polite conversation died completely across the ballroom. Victoria’s champagne flute slipped from her fingers, shattering against the marble floor with a sharp, echoing crack, marking the official opening of our war.