Third POVThe charity ball at Cipriani 42nd Street continued in full swing, the grand ballroom alive with the hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the smooth rhythm of the jazz band that had replaced the string quartet. Laughter rose in elegant waves as guests moved between the dance floor and the high-top tables draped in crisp white linens. The air carried the mingled scents of fresh flowers, aged whiskey, and the faint metallic tang of excitement that came with big money changing hands for a good cause. Destiny Morgan had just finished another round of gracious small talk with a group of donors when she felt it: the subtle shift in the room’s energy that only she would notice.Across the sea of tuxedos and designer gowns, Ronan Foley caught her eye. He stood near one of the marble columns, nursing a drink he had barely touched all night. His gaze locked onto hers with that familiar intensity, dark and hungry. He gave the smallest tilt of his head toward the side corridor,
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