The Montclair Winter Solstice Gala was never just a party. It was a fortress built of gold, silk, and the suffocating pressure of four generations of unearned prestige.

The night of the Winter Solstice Gala, the grand hall was a sea of velvet and diamonds. Genevieve was holding court in the center of the room, draped in a stunning crimson gown, looking like a queen who had just conquered the world.

I didn't walk through the front door.

Decades ago, during Prohibition, my great-grandfather had built a network of service tunnels behind the walls of the grand hall to move illegal liquor. They had been sealed off for fifty years.

Covered in dust and cobwebs, I pried open a cast-iron grate behind the grand silk curtains—the very curtains I had hidden behind a month ago. I slipped into the ballroom, perfectly disguised in a bespoke tuxedo I had stolen from the dry cleaners.

I moved through the crowd like a ghost, snatching a champagne flute to blend in. I made my way to the AV control booth overlooking the ballroom. The technician didn't even have time to shout before I incapacitated him with a sleeper hold.