Diana Beaumont watched Isabella stumble from the dance floor, cheeks flushed, lips parted, legs weak like she'd just barely survived something intimate.
And maybe she had.
That was all the invitation Diana needed.
She rose from her seat like thunder made flesh—tall, dangerous, and laced in black satin that clung like a second skin. Two high slits carved up her thighs like sin had tailored them personally. With every step, her muscles rippled beneath gold-kissed skin—controlled violence wrapped in elegance.
Her back was bare, save for a single gold-chain harness that hugged her spine, glinting under the chandelier's molten light. Each clink with her stride whispered promises no man had earned—except one.
Parker.
She didn't look at the crowd. She didn't need to. The entire ballroom had already turned toward her.
But she wasn't here for them.
She was here for him.
