Meanwhile, in the grand hall of the Crystal Pavilion, the second night of the gala pulsed with restless life.
The obsidian floors gleamed like black mirrors under the amber chandeliers, their floating crystals now throbbing brighter, slower, as though matching the quickening heartbeat of every woman in the room.
The air was thick with perfume, spiced wine, and the faint metallic undercurrent of Aiden's blood-laced crimson vintage—fueling that same relentless, liquid fire between every pair of thighs.
Three hundred and twenty noblewomen swirled in glittering clusters, gowns catching light like scattered constellations. Cheeks glowed with more than wine; eyes darted with hunger, suspicion, calculation. Beneath the laughter and flirtatious touches, fractures were already spiderwebbing across the unity Sheela and Elizabeth had tried to forge.
