Gabrielle Serenity knew how to throw a party that made headlines—lavish, exclusive, and always skating the edge of legal. That night, the music pulsed through the marble floors of her family's private estate as bodies swayed under dim chandeliers, glasses filled with something far stronger than allowed. She was in the center of it all, draped in silk and laughter, her arms lazily wrapped around a man in a leather jacket who smelled like city rain and trouble. Their slow dance was more tension than rhythm, his hand warm on the small of her back, his touch too controlled to be drunk. Then, in one breathless turn, he leaned close to her ear, shifting just enough for the badge clipped inside his jacket to catch the light. “Gabrielle Serenity,” he whispered, voice low and even, “you’re under arrest.”