Selene Armitage had never once been accused of subtlety.

Draped in blood-red silk, a diamond at her throat like a dagger, she stepped into Dorian’s office as though she still owned the right. Trouble followed her like perfume — and this time it wore the name Carlo Vega, a drug lord with a vendetta as nasty as the scars across his men’s faces.

But Selene was nothing if not resourceful. Crescent City had only ever belonged to one man, and when she needed power and protection, she knew exactly where to run.

Dorian Veyron.

He had once loved her. Had once sworn the world would burn if anyone touched her. A few bats of her lashes, a few soft lies dripping from her lips, and surely… surely he would remember.

Only, when she swept into his office, she froze.

Because there were pictures. Pictures of another woman.

Her smile faltered as she took in the frames lined across his shelves, the glow of laughter caught in photographs, warmth she had never been able to draw from him. And worse — far worse — was the sight before her:

A woman perched on Dorian’s desk, hair wild, eyes soft, looking down at him like he was her whole universe. And Dorian? He looked up at her the same way.

Love.

Oh, this would never do.

“Dorian…” Selene’s voice cracked on his name, dripping hurt and honey in equal measure. She ignored the other woman entirely, as though River were nothing more than an inconvenient shadow. “You said you’d wait for me…”