Brighton’s POV The city streets were slick with rain, neon lights reflecting in puddles like shattered jewels. I moved through the alleys, keeping to the shadows, eyes scanning for any sign of movement. The Queen family’s chaos was my chance, and I was ready to take it. The thrill of control, of having someone bend to my schemes, pulsed in my veins. I didn’t expect to see her there. She emerged from the mist like a phantom, dark hair framing a face I didn’t recognize immediately. There was danger in her movements, every step calculated, every glance precise. But there was familiarity too—a flicker in my mind that something about her reminded me of my past, someone I had crossed paths with years ago. “Brighton,” she said, her voice smooth but edged with steel. She didn’t need to introduce herself, and yet I couldn’t place her. My brow furrowed. “Do you remember me?” I shook my head slowly, studying her carefully. “I should,” I muttered. “But I don’t.” She smiled faintly, a preda
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