The Sterling estate wasn't a house; it was a fortress of old money.
A long, winding driveway lined with ancient oaks led to a mansion that looked like it had been airlifted from the French countryside. Valets in white jackets swarmed the entrance, opening doors for senators, CEOs, and socialites.
Elena's hand tightened on my arm as we stepped out of the car.
"Shoulders back," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Chin up. You belong here."
I didn't need the reminder. The [Shadow Tuxedo] was doing its job. I felt the weight of the fabric, the perfect cut. I felt... dangerous.
We walked up the grand staircase. Flashbulbs popped.
"Dean Vance!" a reporter shouted. "A word on the grant hearing?"
Elena didn't stop. She smiled—a dazzling, practiced smile—and kept moving.
"No comment tonight, boys. Just enjoying the evening."
We entered the ballroom.
