ROXIE

The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of glittering chandeliers, expensive champagne, and flashing camera lenses.

"Smile, Roxie," Garrison’s voice vibrated right against my ear, low, authoritarian, and laced with absolute steel. "The national press is tracking our every move. If you look panicked, Arthur wins."

I forced a flawless, radiant smile for a group of passing photographers, my fingers tightening subtly on the sleeve of Garrison's tailored tuxedo jacket. Beneath the elegant fabric, I could feel the rigid, inflexible tension of his muscles.

To the outside world, we were the unified, striking heirs of the Vance dynasty. But beneath my floor-length emerald silk dress, my...