The kitchen went dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the gas burner igniting under Serena’s heavy steel pot.

The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered under ten thousand crystal teardrops. Expensive champagne flowed like water, and the air was thick with the scent of French perfume, expensive cigars, and venomous gossip.

Serena stood near the edge of the mahogany bar, wearing a stunning emerald-green silk dress that Victor had quietly had delivered to her suite that morning—a dress that fit her curves like a glove and made her look like she belonged among the Manhattan elite, even if her heart was hammering against her ribs.

“Don’t slouch,” Victor murmured, stepping up beside her and sliding a flute of sparkling water into her hand. He looked immaculate in a custom-tailored charcoal tuxedo, his dark hair neatly parted. “The vultures are circling.”

Across the room, standing by the ice sculpture, was Eleanor Sterling—Victor’s aristocratic, terrifying mother-in-law. Her eyes were locked onto Serena like a hawk targeting a field mouse.

“Is that the new peasant?” Eleanor’s voice cut through the ambient jazz music as she glided over, her diamond-encrusted cane tapping rhythmically against the marble floor. “The one who smells like cheap laundry detergent and failed parenting?”

The surrounding socialites turned their heads, holding their breath for the inevitable explosion.

Serena didn’t flinch. She took a slow, elegant sip of her sparkling water, turned to face the older woman, and smiled brightly.

“And you must be Eleanor,” Serena replied smoothly, her voice carrying across the silent circle of onlookers. “Victor told me all about you. He said you have a remarkable talent for making everyone in the room feel unwelcome—it’s a rare gift to be so consistently unpleasant.”

A collective gasp echoed through the crowd. Several people dropped their champagne glasses. Victor let out a sudden, deep chuckle that rumbled in his chest, clearly amused.

Eleanor’s face turned the color of a bruised plum. “How dare you—!”

“I dare because I’m the only person in this room who actually keeps your grandsons from burning their father’s estate to the ground,” Serena interrupted, stepping forward with absolute, unyielding poise. “And if you ever speak to me like that again, Eleanor, I’ll feed you the same carbonara I fed them last night—except I won’t bother cooking the pasta first.”

Eleanor opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water, utterly paralyzed by the sheer audacity of a woman talking back to New York royalty.

Victor leaned down, his lips brushing against Serena’s ear, sending a hot shiver straight down her spine.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Serena Valente,” he whispered huskily.

Before Serena could reply, the heavy mahogany ballroom doors suddenly slammed open with a deafening bang. A dozen heavily armed men in black tactical gear poured into the room, led by a man with a jagged scar across his cheek—Dante Marcone, Victor’s fiercest rival.