Isla stood in the center of the massive master closet. She stared at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She took a deep breath, letting her lungs expand.

She dropped her old sweater to the floor and carefully stepped into the Verve gown. The silk slid over her skin like water. Because she had designed it using her own exact measurements, it fit her body with terrifying perfection.

She reached behind her back to pull the zipper up. But because of the tight cut around the waist, her arm couldn't quite reach the mechanism.

"Are you ready?" Curtiss's impatient voice echoed from the hallway. "Do you need the maids?"

Isla panicked. She dropped a hair clip on the floor. "No! I'm almost done!" she called out, pulling desperately at the zipper.

The closet door swung open.

Curtiss walked in. He was wearing a tailored black tuxedo that made him look like a lethal weapon.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Isla was facing the mirror, her back completely exposed to him. The dress dipped low, revealing the smooth, pale curve of her spine. Curtiss's breath caught in his throat. His lungs suddenly felt too small.

Isla gasped. She tried to cover her chest with her arms, freezing in place.

Curtiss's eyes darkened. He didn't turn around. He didn't leave. Instead, he walked slowly toward her.

He stopped right behind her. Isla could feel the heat of his body pressing into her back.

Curtiss reached out. His cold fingers brushed against her bare skin. A violent shiver ripped down Isla's spine.

He looked at her waist in the mirror. His brow furrowed slightly.

Curtiss pinched the metal zipper. He pulled it up slowly. The metallic rasping sound was deafening in the quiet closet. "Is Verve's custom service this fast?" Curtiss asked, his voice casual but laced with a dangerous, probing edge. "Or does your figure just happen to perfectly match their standard model size?"

Isla's breath hitched, her lungs freezing for a fraction of a second. She quickly forced a nervous, self-deprecating laugh, keeping her eyes downcast in the mirror. "I... I guess I'm just lucky. It's actually a little tight around the ribs, but I didn't want to complain."

When the zipper reached the top, he didn't let go. He rested both of his large hands heavily on her bare shoulders.

Isla looked up. Their eyes locked in the mirror. Curtiss's gaze was heavy, filled with a raw, predatory hunger that made Isla's stomach flip.

She quickly dropped her eyelashes, looking away, playing the shy, overwhelmed virgin.

Curtiss pulled his hands back. He took a step away, his face hardening back into a mask of ice. "It's acceptable," he muttered.

The styling team rushed into the room. Curtiss sat on the velvet sofa, scrolling through his tablet.

The lead stylist pinned Isla's hair up. She ran her hands over the bodice of the dress.

"My god," the stylist whispered. "The draping on this... it's like a stroke of genius, absolutely on par with Freya's level. It's a masterpiece."

Isla's heart slammed against her ribs. She shot a panicked look at Curtiss through the mirror.

Curtiss's finger stopped swiping on the tablet. He looked up. His eyes locked onto Isla's reflection. He was calculating something, his mind turning. But he stayed silent.

An hour later, Isla wore a ten-million-dollar diamond necklace. She looked like royalty. To hide it, she hunched her shoulders slightly, dulling her own shine.

They walked to the garage. Curtiss held out his arm. Isla took it.

The Maybach sped toward the Upper East Side. The air in the backseat was thick with unspoken tension.

"Stay close to me tonight," Curtiss said suddenly, staring out the window. "You don't need to smile at anyone."

Isla nodded obediently. Inside, she was laughing. Tonight, she wouldn't be smiling. She would be executing.

She turned her head to look out the window. For a split second, her reflection in the glass showed a woman with eyes as sharp as a guillotine blade.

Curtiss caught the reflection. He turned his head sharply, but Isla was already looking down at her lap, playing with her fingers.

He narrowed his eyes. The suspicion in his gut was growing into a physical ache.

The car slowed down. The red carpet of the Metropolitan Museum of Art awaited. The war was about to begin.

The Maybach door opened. Curtiss stepped out first. The camera flashes exploded like a violent lightning storm.

He turned and offered his hand. Isla placed her trembling fingers into his palm. As she stepped out, she deliberately shrank back, squinting against the blinding lights.

Curtiss immediately pulled her against his side. He wrapped his arm tightly around her waist, using his broad chest to shield her from the cameras. It was a pure, aggressive display of ownership.

They walked into the grand ballroom. The loud chatter of the elite crowd died down for a fraction of a second. Every eye in the room locked onto Isla's dress.

Across the room, Jaylene was holding a glass of champagne, laughing with a group of heirs. She turned around.

The champagne glass slipped from Jaylene's hand and shattered on the marble floor. All the blood drained from her face.

Jaylene looked down at her own dress, then back at Isla's. Next to the authentic Verve masterpiece, Jaylene's dress looked like a cheap Halloween costume.

Collette stood nearby, her face twisting in pure fury. She thought Isla had manipulated Curtiss into buying the dress just to humiliate them.

Isla clung to Curtiss's arm. She put a hand over her mouth and gasped softly. "Oh no," she whispered, just loud enough for people to hear. "We're wearing the same dress."

Curtiss looked at Jaylene. A cruel, mocking smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

A group of senior fashion editors swarmed them. They ignored Jaylene entirely, fawning over the flawless stitching on Isla's gown.

One of the editors, a notorious critic known for destroying careers, turned to look at Jaylene.

"Good lord," the critic said loudly, adjusting his glasses. "Who let that garbage into the room? Look at the hemline. It's a pathetic counterfeit. An insult to haute couture."

The surrounding socialites erupted into muffled laughter. They pointed at Jaylene, their eyes full of vicious mockery.

Jaylene's face burned bright red. Tears of absolute humiliation welled in her eyes. She lost her mind.

She lunged forward, pointing a shaking finger right at Isla's face. "You manipulative bitch! You did this on purpose!"

Isla let out a tiny shriek. She hid completely behind Curtiss's back, grabbing handfuls of his suit jacket, shaking violently.

Curtiss's patience snapped. He reached out and grabbed Jaylene's pointing finger, twisting her wrist down hard.

Jaylene screamed in pain.

"If you ever speak to my wife like that again," Curtiss said, his voice dropping to a demonic whisper, "I will erase the Morales name from Wall Street by sunrise."

Collette rushed forward, grabbing Jaylene and pulling her back. "Mr. Coffey, please, she didn't mean it!" Collette begged, looking terrified.

Curtiss didn't even blink at her. He wrapped his arm around Isla and walked straight toward the VIP lounge, leaving Jaylene crying in the center of the room as a public laughingstock.

Isla walked beside him. Just before they entered the hallway, Isla peeked out from under Curtiss's arm. She looked back at Jaylene.

Isla's eyes were dead, cold, and dripping with absolute arrogance.

Jaylene saw the look. She stopped crying. Pure terror washed over her face as she realized the weak cousin she had bullied for years was a monster in disguise.

"She... she's a monster! Did you see her eyes?!" Jaylene suddenly shrieked, grabbing Collette's arm and pointing wildly at the empty hallway where Isla had just been. "She did this! She set me up!"

But Collette merely slapped Jaylene's hand away, looking at her daughter with utter disgust and embarrassment. "Stop making a scene! You've humiliated us enough tonight. Are you hallucinating now?" The surrounding guests shook their heads, whispering about Jaylene's pathetic, hysterical breakdown. Isla's flawless performance had completely cemented Jaylene's status as a delusional, jealous wreck. No one would ever believe a word she said.

Inside the quiet VIP lounge, Curtiss let go of Isla. He looked down at her.

"Did you enjoy watching her burn?" Curtiss asked, testing her.

Isla immediately forced tears into her eyes. "I feel awful," she cried softly. "I shouldn't have worn it."

Curtiss sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration at her endless weakness.

The heavy door of the VIP lounge suddenly pushed open.

A man in a silver suit walked in. He had a reckless, untamed energy.

Isla looked up. Her breath completely stopped. The room spun.

Curtiss saw the color vanish from Isla's face. He followed her gaze. His eyes locked onto the stranger, and his blood turned to ice.

Karson Cantrell walked toward the leather sofas with a reckless smirk playing on his lips.

Isla immediately dropped her head. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. Her chest heaved. The ghost of the boy who had abandoned her five years ago was suddenly standing in the same room.

Curtiss didn't hesitate. He stepped sideways, placing his massive frame directly in front of Isla, blocking her from the stranger's view. His muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap.

Karson stopped two feet away. He completely ignored Curtiss. He leaned to the side, trying to catch Isla's eye. His gaze was filled with a sickening mix of agony and desperation.

"Isla," Karson said. His voice was raw, intimate.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Curtiss's eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "Who the hell are you, and why are you addressing my wife by her first name?"

Karson finally looked at Curtiss. He tilted his chin up defiantly. "I'm the future son-in-law of the Morales family. Jaylene's fiancé."

Isla's stomach violently rejected the words. Jaylene's fiancé. Her fingernails dug into her palms until she felt wet blood. The betrayal was a physical knife twisting in her gut.

Curtiss felt the violent trembling of the woman behind him. He reached back without looking and grabbed Isla's freezing hand, his grip crushing and absolute.

Curtiss let out a dark laugh. "You have terrible taste in women, Cantrell. Your fiancé is currently the laughingstock of the ballroom."

Karson's jaw clenched. But he didn't care about Jaylene. He took a step forward, reaching his hand out toward Isla's arm. "Isla, please. We need to talk."

Curtiss slapped Karson's hand away with brutal force.

"Touch her," Curtiss snarled, the veins in his neck bulging, "and you lose the arm."

The two men stared each other down. The air crackled with violent male aggression. A physical fight was seconds away.

Isla knew she had to kill the situation before Curtiss started digging into Karson's past. She took a deep breath and stepped out from behind Curtiss.

She looked at Karson. She forced her eyes to widen in pure, unadulterated terror.

"Mr. Cantrell," Isla said, her voice shaking violently. "I don't know you."

Karson looked like he had been shot in the chest. He stared at her blank, terrified eyes in absolute horror.

Isla turned to Curtiss. She grabbed his lapels, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Please, Curtiss. Take me home. I feel sick."

Curtiss looked down at her wet face. The tears short-circuited his rage. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward the balcony doors.

Karson tried to follow, but two massive Coffey bodyguards stepped out of the shadows, slamming their hands into his chest, pinning him to the doorframe.

Out on the freezing balcony, the autumn wind whipped around them.

Curtiss grabbed Isla by the shoulders and slammed her back against the cold stone pillar. He boxed her in, his arms caging her against the wall.

"Who is he?" Curtiss demanded, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "Why are you shaking?"

Isla's brain raced. She couldn't tell him the truth.

She let out a pathetic sob, letting her shoulders tremble violently. "He... he runs in Jaylene's circle. I've seen him at their parties... People in that circle, they always look at me with those eyes, making me feel so small and dirty. I just... I don't want to be near him. Please, I just want to go home."

Curtiss stared into her eyes, searching for the lie. But Isla's terror was real-she was terrified of being exposed.

Curtiss's jaw ticked. He didn't fully believe her. But seeing her shivering in the cold wind, his chest tightened. He stripped off his tuxedo jacket and threw it over her bare shoulders.

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Coffey women do not lie, Isla. Remember that."

Isla nodded frantically, burying her face into the warm silk of his jacket to hide her heavy breathing.

Through the glass doors, Karson watched them. He saw Curtiss's jacket draped over Isla. Karson's hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles turned white.