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The early morning air felt like cold water slapped against my face as I stepped out onto 5th Avenue. My thrift-store silver dress swished against my ankles, a noisy, glaring sign of a fantasy that was already evaporating into the dawn mist. / Chapter 6 / 8

Chapter 6 - THE VELVET TRAP

"Are you insane?!" I grabbed Julian’s arm the moment Marcus stormed out of the study. "A wedding?! I'm about to be arrested for murder!"

"Under New York State law and Vance Corporate bylaws," Julian explained, turning to face me with absolute calm, "a spouse cannot be compelled to testify against her husband, nor can her assets or property be seized without a joint warrant. If we get married today, my legal team can block the warrant for seventy-two hours."

"Seventy-two hours isn't enough time to clear my name!"

"It’s enough time to catch the real killer," Julian said, his hands coming up to cup my face. His thumbs brushed softly against my cheekbones, sending a shiver through my spine despite the horror unfolding around us. "Trust me, Nora. Just for three days."

"Why should I trust you?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "You lured me to that party. You manipulated my best friend, my life, my art!"

"Because," Julian said, leaning in until his lips were inches from mine, "I left my heart in that bed with your mask last night. And I'm not letting anyone take you away from me."

Two hours later, the penthouse was transformed into a media circus.

I was poured into a breathtaking ivory silk gown, my hair styled in loose waves, diamonds dripping from my ears. I looked like a queen, but I felt like a prisoner on execution day.

The ballroom lights flashed blindingly as fifty news crews crammed into the Vance Tower atrium. Cameras clicked like a swarm of mechanical insects.

Julian held my hand tightly, his fingers intertwined with mine. He stepped up to the podium, looking every bit the ruthless billionaire monarch.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Julian’s voice echoed through the microphones. "There have been vicious rumors circulating regarding the events at the Sterling Gala and the tragic death of Clarissa Vance. I am here to set the record straight. Nora Calloway is not a suspect. She is my fiancée, and she was with me all night."

A reporter shouted from the front row: "Mr. Vance! What about the mask fragment found in the victim's hand?"

Julian smiled—a terrifying, sharp smile. "The fragment was a fake. Planted by someone inside my own company who wishes to see Vance Logistics fall." He turned to look directly at his uncle Marcus, who stood near the side doors with a dark scowl. "And I have the security footage to prove it."

My heart stopped. Security footage? Julian hadn't mentioned any security footage to me.

Julian pointed to the giant screen behind the podium. "Roll the clip from hallway camera four."

The screen flickered to life. The black-and-white footage showed the penthouse hallway at 5:15 AM—six minutes after I had left.

A figure emerged from the stairwell wearing a heavy coat and a brimmed hat. The figure pulled out a master keycard, unlocked Julian's penthouse door, and walked inside.

Ten seconds later, the person walked back out, carrying a blood-soaked plastic bag.

The room gasped. The reporter screamed: "Who is that?!"

The camera zoomed in on the figure’s face as they looked up at the lens.

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The screech of the chopper’s rotor blades vibrated directly through the freezing slate beneath my spine. The blinding white vortex of snow kicked up by the downdraft burned my eyes, but I forced my lids open, locking my gaze onto the amber visor of the rescue specialist dropping out of the sky.

The screech of the chopper’s rotor blades vibrated directly through the...

Daniel stepped toward the bed, his polished leather shoes squeaking against the pristine hospital linoleum. He reached for the tray table, his fingers brushing the edge of the papers. His voice was low, coated in a practiced, corporate calm that made my stomach churn worse than the spiked blood pressure.

Daniel stepped toward the bed, his polished leather shoes squeaking agai...

The silence in the dining room stretched thin, heavy enough to slice with a butter knife. Robert, Michael’s father, adjusted his napkin, completely oblivious to the silent war being fought across the porcelain plates.

The silence in the dining room stretched thin, heavy enough to slice wit...

My breath caught in my throat. I stumbled backward, pulling my hand out of Julian's grip.

The person on the camera... was Mrs. Ruth Sterling.

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