Elowen The grand ballroom of the Grand Horizon Hotel buzzed with low, refined chatter and the soft, swelling melody of a live string quartet. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, casting a golden hue over the polished floors, but all I could focus on was the suffocating tension radiating from the body beside me. Zephyr and I were seated at one of the prime tables near the front of the stage. On paper, we looked like the picture of high-society elegance—me in liquid black silk, him in his tailored suit. But under the table, the space between us vibrated with a dangerous, unspoken strain. Up on the lit stage, Mirabelle stood behind the podium, glowing under the spotlights. She wore an emerald velvet dress that screamed royalty, a micro-drop diamond necklace sparkling against her skin. Her smile was breathtaking, radiating warmth, grace, and authority. "I look around this room tonight," Mirabelle’s smooth, amplified voice echoed through the speakers, "and I see the true heart of o
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