Rain struck the glass roof of the Halcyon Hotel hard enough to drown out the orchestra.
From the highest terrace, Vesper Bay looked like a city sinking beneath black water. Lightning illuminated the harbor cranes, the cathedral towers, and the white yachts rocking behind the sea wall. Inside the ballroom, four hundred guests drank champagne beneath chandeliers shaped like frozen waves.
They had come to witness the marriage of two empires.
Lucian Crowe controlled the country’s largest private energy network. Vivienne Ellison was the youngest daughter of the family that owned Bellweather Maritime, the shipping company responsible for nearly a third of the harbor’s commercial traffic.
Their wedding was scheduled for the following afternoon.
Tonight was only the masked rehearsal gala.
Mara Ellison stood behind a marble column and repaired her sister’s veil with a safety pin.
“Stop moving,” Mara said.
“I’m not moving.”
“You’re trembling.”
Vivienne’s laugh was thin. “That is technically different.”
The sisters wore matching silver gowns because a famous designer had decided symmetry would look dramatic in the photographs. Their faces were concealed behind delicate veils covered with tiny crystals. From a distance, the only obvious difference between them was that Vivienne wore diamonds around her throat while Mara wore nothing.
Mara had learned long ago that jewelry drew cameras.
Cameras led to questions.
Questions led to photographs from angles her father disliked.
She secured the torn fabric and stepped back.
“There.”
Vivienne touched the repaired veil. “You always fix everything.”
“No. I fix fabric. People are less cooperative.”
“You could still leave.”
Mara studied her sister through the veil.
“Leave the gala?”
“Leave the city.”
Vivienne glanced toward the ballroom entrance. Two men from Lucian’s security team stood there with their hands clasped in front of their jackets.
Mara lowered her voice.
“Why would I leave the city?”
Before Vivienne could answer, the lights went out.
The music stopped.
Someone screamed near the dance floor.
Emergency lamps flashed red along the walls, transforming the ballroom into a cavern of moving shadows. Guests pushed toward the exits while security guards shouted contradictory instructions.
Mara reached for her sister.
Her fingers closed around empty air.
“Vivienne?”
A gloved hand seized Mara from behind.
Something hard pressed against her ribs.
“Walk,” a man whispered.
She drove her heel backward.
Her attacker grunted but did not release her. Another man appeared through the darkness, caught her wrists, and pulled a black cloth over her veil.
Mara tried to shout.
A hand covered her mouth.
The attackers moved with terrifying coordination. They guided her through a service door, down a narrow staircase, and into a corridor smelling of bleach and wet stone.
She heard gunfire above them.
Not ceremonial fireworks.
Gunfire.
One of the men cursed.
“This is the bride?”
“Silver dress, silver veil, diamond clasp. She matches the photograph.”
Mara twisted against them.
The clasp in her veil tore loose and struck the floor.
No one noticed.
She was pushed through a metal door into the rain.
A vehicle waited beside the loading dock with its rear doors open.
Mara bit the hand covering her mouth.
The man shouted.
She managed one word before someone injected something into her neck.
“Wrong.”
The world folded inward.
Mara awakened beneath a painted ceiling.
A golden angel watched her from a cloud, one hand extended toward a heaven that had begun to peel away.
She lay on a narrow velvet couch in what appeared to be an abandoned theater. Dust covered the balconies. Torn curtains hung around the stage, and broken seats disappeared into the darkness below.
Her wrists were free.
Her shoes were gone.
A woman in a dark green suit stood beside a medical bag.
“You had a reaction to the sedative,” the woman said. “Do not sit up yet.”
Mara sat up.
Pain exploded behind her eyes.
She nearly fell from the couch.
The woman caught her shoulder.
“I specifically said not to do that.”
“Where is my sister?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who are you?”
“Dr. Amara Voss.”
“That answer is supposed to reassure me?”
“No. It is simply my name.”
Mara looked down.
The silver gown had been cut open along one side. A blanket covered her from the waist down, but the damaged fabric had fallen away from her left shoulder and back.
The scars were visible.
They began beneath her shoulder blade, crossed her ribs, and curved toward her hip. Some were pale and smooth. Others formed uneven ridges where skin grafts had healed badly after infection. A long surgical line followed her spine.
Mara pulled the blanket upward.
Dr. Voss did not look away in embarrassment or stare in fascination.