The ballroom of Le Grand Hotel that night was so magnificent it felt like stepping into a dream woven from gold and crystal.

Clara backed away, her mind racing. The man she was about to marry was a stranger. The charming, philanthropic real estate heir was a mask, and the monster beneath had just slipped out.

"Okay," Clara said, forcing her voice to remain steady. She needed to play the game. She needed to survive. "Okay, Marcus. You're right. It's a PR crisis. I can fix it. But I need to wash my face first. The makeup is running."

Marcus stared at her for a long, agonizing moment before nodding. "Two minutes. Then we go back downstairs."

Clara slipped into the en-suite bathroom and locked the door. She turned on the faucet to muffle any sound. She didn't have her phone; it was with her bridal party.

She looked at the emerald. It was an antique, supposedly an heirloom from the Sterling vault. But if that boy was right, Marcus had acquired it last night.

Clara opened the bathroom cabinet, searching for anything useful. She found a pair of heavy brass scissors in a sewing kit. She slipped them into the folds of her massive ivory satin gown.

She needed to speak to the boy who crashed the wedding. As the PR director, she had a master keycard to all service areas of the Sovereign Palace, discreetly pinned to her garter belt for emergencies. The security team would have taken the intruder to the holding cells in the sub-basement to wait for the police—or worse, to silence him.

Clara stepped out of the bathroom, her face perfectly composed.

"I'm ready," she told Marcus.

As Marcus reached for the door handle to lead them out, Clara feigned a trip on her heavy train. She stumbled forward, colliding with him, and swiftly pulled the fire alarm lever on the wall next to the door.

The suite erupted into a deafening, piercing siren. Red strobe lights flashed.

"Clara! What did you do?!" Marcus roared over the alarm.