The dance with Dominic had been a whirlwind of motion and calculated glances, but as the music faded, the ballroom's heat became suffocating. Nina stepped away from the floor, her magenta train gliding behind her like a wake of wine. She moved toward the long, linen-draped bar, her throat parched from the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
She had just reached for a glass of chilled champagne when a hand clamped onto her upper arm. The grip was frantic, nails digging into the delicate lace of her sleeve with enough force to make her wince. The sudden violence of it sent a jolt through her carefully maintained composure, threatening to crack the serene mask she'd worn all evening.
Nina turned slowly, her poise a cool, impenetrable shield. She found herself staring into the trembling, livid face of Claire, the woman who held her contract but had long ago sold her soul to Lydia Hale.
