The club pulsed with low jazz and illicit tension—somewhere between smoke and silk. Emma stood beneath the chandelier, crystalline and untouchable in her white tailored suit, the hem kissed with diamonds, her gloves spotless despite what she’d done an hour ago.

She wasn’t a queen by birth, but no one in this city would dare question her throne. Not after what she did to the Hellfire heir who’d called her “just a woman.”

And certainly not now—now that she walked in. The only one Emma ever lowered her voice for. The only one who ever saw blood on her hands and kissed them anyway.

Emma didn’t look away. Not when their eyes locked. Not when the past walked in wearing red.

Tonight, business and desire would bleed into each other. And someone—maybe both of them—wouldn’t walk away clean.