The suite remained silent, embalmed in a hush too perfect to be mistaken for peace. It was the silence of expectation, of velvet stretched too tightly over glass. Iris Elenor stood before the full-length mirror in the dressing chamber of her penthouse, the invitation lying open like a wound on the velvet bench behind her. No name, no threat. Just a camellia. A bloom so white it glowed against the darkness of its delivery box-a flower Ethan Vale once told her belonged in funerals, not vases.

She had not yet decided whose funeral it would be. The gown she wore was black. Not the softness of onyx or the gleam of patent leather-but a black so pure it devoured light. Matte, structured, backless. It clung to her waist and draped over her collarbone like a second skin forged from defiance. Her hair had been swept into a sculpted updo, held not by pins but by her control. The mask-delicate lace veined with obsidian-rested lightly against the table, waiting.