The crimson silk pooled over her hands, cool and impossibly heavy… a stark contrast to the rough cotton duvet beneath her fingers. Nina stared at the fabric, her brain firing in useless, fragmented bursts that refused to coalesce into coherent thought.
How?
The question emerged as a desperate whisper in the silence of her room, barely audible above the hum of traffic outside. How did Bianca Grant know about the introductory ceremony at the Savoy when Nina herself had discovered it only minutes ago?
The implication sent her reeling, made her stomach twist with something between awe and dread. The Grants didn't just possess money; they wielded an omnipresence that felt predatory, invasive, as though they had eyes everywhere, watching, calculating, always three steps ahead.
