Slowly, the figure on the stage raised two hands covered in black silk gloves, untied the rear ribbon of the gold filigree Venetian mask, and removed it from her face with a tired movement, letting the costume drop onto the wood of the podium.I froze in the middle of the catwalk. Blood ran cold in my veins.The person standing behind the microphone, with brown hair gathered in an elegant bun, dark red lipstick, and a gaze filled with pure, bitter hatred, was not a Balboa agent.It was Anastasia.Anastasia Bianchi. The woman who had shared Richard's bed, the one who set the trap for me in the guest bedroom to destroy me with Luke, and the one who had allegedly been left in absolute poverty following her family's bankruptcy.There she was. She looked noticeably thinner, her features marked by resentment, but wearing a velvet coat that betrayed the last remnant of her corporate pride.Luke took a step back abruptly, his pupils dilating in shock as he recognized her."Anastasia..." Luke
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