The hotel ballroom glittered like a jewel box cracked open. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto marble floors, and a small orchestra coaxed out a waltz that no one was really listening to. Waiters floated past with trays of champagne, their movements rehearsed to near-ballet precision.

Aria  paused at the entrance, one hand resting lightly on the curve of her hip. The gown she’d chosen wasn’t loud silky midnight blue that caught the light only when she moved but it fit like a secret. Power, she had decided, didn’t need sequins.

The crowd spotted her within seconds. Heads turned, murmurs followed. Some recognized her as the “new Mrs. Cross,” others simply...