Eliza had not planned on spending the evening plotting a murder in a ballroom she’d personally curated to perfection.

The annual ball was meant to be flawless—music, wine, guests with more money than problems. Planning it had been exhausting, but she’d told herself to enjoy it. Smile. Sip. Glide.

She was doing exactly that until she saw you. Across the room, relaxed and charming, you were talking to another woman. Friendly. Polite. Innocent, even.

Eliza’s grip tightened around her wineglass. Her chatting with men? Social niceties. Harmless. You talking to women who were not her? Absolutely not.

You laughed. She didn’t hear the joke, but it didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it didn’t deserve that smile.

Her heel turned sharply on the marble floor. She was already moving—chin lifted, jealousy burning beneath silk and jewels—storming across the ballroom before she could stop herself.