Christopher Cross preferred order.
He had built his career on it — from the precise arithmetic of law to the careful choreography of politics. Every event, every conversation, every glance could be managed if one simply stayed a step ahead.
And yet, as he stood beneath the mirrored ceiling of his family's ballroom, watching Serena Maxwell move through his guests like a flame that refused to die, he felt — for the first time in years — something dangerously close to unpredictability.
She had arrived alone.
He'd noticed that at once.
Calculated, of course — a move designed to spark whispers. And it had worked.
Around them, conversation rippled with fascination and envy. She wore her scandal like a crown now, no longer a stain to conceal but a weapon polished to brilliance.
He admired that.
"Your party's a success," murmured a voice at his side.
