The ballroom of the Pierre Hotel was a sea of black tuxedos and polite conversation. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto the elite of Manhattan.
Brice stood near the bar, holding court. Lola was beside him, wearing a silver dress that was trying too hard. She was laughing too loudly at a joke made by a senator.
The double doors opened.
The room didn't go silent immediately, but the silence spread like a wave. Heads turned. Whispers started.
Carly walked in.
The red dress clung to her body like a second skin. Her hair was swept up, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. She didn't look down. She didn't shrink. She walked with the stride of a soldier entering a battlefield.
Brice saw her. His glass stopped halfway to his mouth. His face went from confused to thunderous in a second.
Lola's smile froze. She looked at Carly, then down at her own dress, suddenly realizing she looked like a cheap imitation.
Brice marched toward her, abandoning his conversation. He grabbed her elbow, his grip bruising.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed, his voice low and venomous. "I told you to stay home."
Carly pulled her arm away. She didn't even look at him. She looked past him, scanning the room.
She saw him. Damon Yates.
He was sitting alone at a corner table, nursing a martini, looking bored out of his mind. He was wearing a black velvet tuxedo jacket. He looked like a panther waiting for a deer.
Carly sidestepped Brice and walked straight to Damon.
She stopped in front of his table, blocking his view of the room.
Damon looked up. His eyes, the color of steel, traveled up the red dress, lingering for a fraction of a second before meeting her gaze.
"Well," Damon drawled. "Salazar's mute kitten. Did you lose your ball of yarn?"
Carly didn't blink. She placed a cocktail coaster on the table. She slid it toward him.
Damon looked at it. He flipped it over.
Written on the back were GPS coordinates and a name.
Tijuana. Sector 4. The Ghost.
Damon's eyes snapped wide. The boredom vanished instantly. He looked at Carly with a terrifying intensity.
He stood up, towering over her. "Who are you?"
Carly held up her phone. I know where he is. I can deliver him.
Damon leaned in close. "And what do you want?"
I want a divorce. And I want you to destroy Brice.
Damon stared at her. Then, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "You want me to eat your husband alive?"
Carly nodded.
"Deal," Damon whispered. "But if you're lying to me, I will destroy you."
Carly showed him a photo on her phone-a recent picture of The Ghost, timestamped yesterday.
Damon laughed. It was a genuine sound of delight. He extended his arm. "Shall we dance, Mrs. Salazar?"
Carly took his arm.
They walked onto the dance floor. The crowd parted.
Brice watched from the sidelines, his face a mask of shock and fury. His wife-his property-was dancing with his worst enemy.
He stormed onto the floor. He grabbed Carly's other arm.
"We are leaving. Now."
Damon didn't let go. He stepped between them, his hand resting casually on Brice's chest, pushing him back an inch.
"Easy, Brice," Damon said, his voice smooth as silk. "Don't be rude. Your wife was just consulting me on a legal matter."
"She's a mute," Brice spat. "She can't consult on anything."
"Oh, I don't know," Damon smirked. "She communicates quite clearly. Maybe she's asking how to dispose of trash."
C Carly stood in the eye of the storm. She looked at Brice. For the first time in years, she didn't look afraid. She looked bored.
She pulled her arm from Brice's grip. She turned her back on him and placed her hand on Damon's shoulder.
"Drive," she mouthed to Damon.
Damon grinned. He spun her around, leading her away from her husband.
