The storm hadn’t hit yet when the first toast was made.

Vivienne Harrow’s estate—three stories of old money charm and questionable taste—glowed like a lighthouse on a hill. Below, the surrounding forest whispered promises to the wind. Inside, champagne fizzed, secrets brewed, and ten very different people played nice.

It had been marketed as a “casual weekend gathering,” which was a lie. The guest list was too curated, the guest rooms too perfectly prepared. Everyone had a reason to be there, whether they admitted it or not. And Daniel Ashcroft—the tech mogul with a God complex and a grudge list—was at the center of it all.

By 2:00 AM, the storm had arrived, and so had the hangovers.

And now, you were waking up with a problem.

Not the pounding headache. Not the fuzzy timeline. Not even the fact that you were distinctly bare.

No, the problem was the firm arm currently draped over your stomach.

“Good morning,” murmured a voice just behind your ear—smooth, low, annoyingly smug.

You went still. “Oh, no.”

“Oh yes,” Matthew Creed replied, far too pleased with himself. He shifted slightly, and your heart did something unwise. “Don’t worry. I’m a gentleman. Mostly.”

You turned over—and was met with the tousled dark hair, dimpled half-smirk, and villain-in-a-courtroom eyes of the man you'd spent the last year actively trying to avoid.

“You,” you croaked.

“Me,” he agreed. “And you, if I remember correctly. Vividly.”

“You are the worst.”

“And yet,” he said, sitting up and revealing a trail of bruises and scratches across his torso, “here we are. Practically married by Victorian standards.”

You groaned and rolled out of bed, dragging the blanket with you. Your phone buzzed from the nightstand.

Vivienne Harrow’s name flashed on screen, followed by a voice message.

“Daniel isn’t answering his door,” Vivienne said, clipped and annoyed. “And we are not waiting on his theatrics to serve breakfast. If either of you see him—preferably dressed—send him downstairs.”

You stared at the phone. Then at Matthew, who looked far too entertained.

“What now?” he asked.

“Apparently, Daniel’s missing.”

Matthew arched a brow. “What a shame.”

—

Ten minutes later, the guests began to gather, groggy and rain-damp, in Vivienne’s sprawling dining hall. The fire was lit. The tension was not.

“I swear,” said Evelyn Ashcroft, ex-wife, “if this is one of Daniel’s little stunts—”

“He does love drama,” added Felix Marlowe, swirling espresso like it was brandy.

“He does love being the center of attention,” said Amelia Frost, influencer and accidental ex-fling.

“Then where is he?” snapped Vivienne, now barefoot, silk robe swishing like a general’s cape. “He knew this brunch was mandatory.”

Jasper Quinn, artist and chaos incarnate, looked up from his sketchbook. “Maybe he died choking on his own ego.”

You scanned the room—nine people, all waiting. All tense. And one still missing.

“Maybe he’s in the library,” Matthew suggested. “You know how fond he is of... monologuing near mahogany.”

Victor, Vivienne’s longtime butler, was dispatched.

Then came the scream.

Not from Victor, but from Amelia, who had wandered upstairs looking for a charger—and found something else instead.

“I think... I think he’s dead,” she stammered from the doorway.

You all ran—past the grand staircase, down the hall, and into the library. The doors creaked open.

Daniel Ashcroft sat, limp and slouched, in a high-backed leather chair.

A silk scarf was knotted around his neck. His lips were purple. His fingers, still, like the glass of scotch at his side.

Someone gasped. Someone swore.

“Well,” Matthew said, stepping beside you, voice almost lazy. “That answers that.”

Vivienne stood frozen. “Is... is he really...?”

“Oh, he’s dead,” said Jasper, crossing his arms. “Finally.”

“Don’t be crass,” snapped Isabel Moreau. “He could’ve been poisoned.”

“No bruising,” Matthew said. “No sign of struggle. Strangled, likely. While seated. Quiet, clean."

You glanced at him.

“You’ve seen a strangling before?"

Matthew’s smile was slow. “I’ve defended one.”