The room was teeming with them: venture capitalists who casually ruined lives between golf swings, silver-haired judges with flexible morals, charity board matriarchs dripping in conflict-free diamonds.

There were dozens of powerful men in that room who had shaken Adrian’s hand, heard the dark, persistent whispers about his volatile temper, and actively chosen silence. They chose silence because, on paper, Blackwell money was as clean as freshly fallen snow.

I sat beside him, swathed in an emerald evening gown that cost more than a luxury car, feeling the oppressive weight of my own performance.

“Smile for the cameras, darling,” Adrian whispered, his breath warm and laced with expensive bourbon. His teeth were blindingly white, a predatory flash against his tanned skin.

“You look terribly pale. People will think you’re frightened of me.”

“I’m just overwhelmed with happiness,” I replied, my voice a soft, practiced hum.