The crimson lace spilled out over the edges of the box, striking against her pale gold dress like a fresh arterial wound.

A collective, sharp intake of breath sucked the oxygen from the room.

Somewhere to my left, a delicate champagne glass slipped from trembling fingers and shattered violently against the marble floor.

Elena’s mother, standing near the hors d’oeuvres, slapped a hand over her mouth in sheer horror.

Beside her, the patriarch of the family, Carlo Moretti, watched his complexion shift rapidly from tan to a dangerous, apoplectic purple.

Elena’s dark eyes widened in a momentary flash of absolute terror, but she was a predator, raised in a shark tank.

She recovered her composure with frightening speed.