Elowen

The grand ballroom of the Grand Horizon Hotel buzzed with low, refined chatter and the soft, swelling melody of a live string quartet. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, casting a golden hue over the polished floors, but all I could focus on was the suffocating tension radiating from the body beside me.

Zephyr and I were seated at one of the prime tables near the front of the stage. On paper, we looked like the picture of high-society elegance—me in liquid black silk, him in his tailored suit. But under the table, the space between us vibrated with a dangerous, unspoken strain.

Up on the lit stage, Mirabelle stood behind...