Captain Owen Harris narrowed his eyes, shifting his gaze from Mateo’s impenetrable expression to Genevieve. The flashing red and blue lights from the police cruisers outside painted the shattered marble floor in eerie, pulsing strokes.

Three weeks later, the grand ballroom of the Bellrose Grand Hotel was packed once again, hosting the rescheduled Marlowe Foundation Gala.

The crystal chandeliers sparkled flawlessly against the restored marble floor. Three hundred white roses, flown in fresh from California, filled the air with a sweet, delicate fragrance. String quartet musicians played softly near the north balcony.

Captain Harris stood near the bar, nursing a club soda and watching the room with a jaded eye.

At table one, sitting directly in the center of the ballroom where everyone could see them, sat Mateo Viscanti and Genevieve Sinclair.

Genevieve wore a stunning emerald-green silk dress that caught the light with every movement. She wasn't holding a clipboard or arguing with the catering director. She was holding a crystal flute of vintage champagne, laughing quietly at something Mateo had murmured in her ear.

As the string quartet finished their movement, Mateo raised his glass toward the head table, catching Harris’s eye across the room with a polite, untouchable nod.

Genevieve looked down at her plate, then sideways at the man beside her—the man who had dragged her into the crossfire, lied to the police, and kissed her in front of four hundred people to claim her as his own.

“You know,” Genevieve whispered, leaning slightly closer to him, “the roses this time are actually better than the first batch.”