I wore red.
Not a polite, demure burgundy or a soft, romantic rose.
A blinding, unapologetic crimson. The silk gown clung to my waist and flared out at the hips, pairing perfectly with a bold red lip that felt less like makeup and more like war paint.
If I was walking into the Deveraux Foundation Gala as the city's most hated "debtor," I was going to make sure they choked on the view.
The moment the Maybach's doors opened, the night exploded into a chaotic frenzy of blinding white flashes and overlapping screams.
"Alexandra! Look over here!"
"Is it true your mother orchestrated the marriage?"
"Debtor! Over here!"
"Leech! How much of the Reyes fortune have you drained already?"
The venom in their voices made my chest tighten. For a split second, my heel faltered on the red carpet. But before the panic could set in, Adrian's hand was on the small of my back, his long fingers pressing a firm, grounding warmth into my spine.
