Esme stood at the top of the ballroom staircase, barely illuminated by the chandelier's golden sprawl. From up here, the Aramore Gala looked like a terrarium of power—glass walls, glossy people, and everyone pretending the heat wasn't rising.
The elite moved like slow water. Laughter, false teeth, real money. Champagne flutes glittered in the hands of men who made policy and women who buried bodies with smiles. Every step Esme took down the stairs felt like slipping deeper into a world her mother had once tried to poison from the inside out.
She adjusted the black mask over her face, the lace tracing over her cheekbones like a second skin. The dress she wore clung like a secret—midnight blue, cut low and high in all the right places. The gloves were satin. The heels were sharp.
And somewhere among the crowd below, her other target—Silas Dorne—was drinking vintage champagne and pretending not to be a predator.
She let him enjoy the night. After all, there was only one person ahead of him on the list. He would die soon enough.
Esme's gaze sharpened.
She wasn't here to flirt.
She was here to deliver closure.
But then… she saw him.
——————————————————
Liam had abandoned his usual uniform—no crisp button-up, no rolled sleeves, no black slacks.
Which was strange, because his presence was a warning bell in Esme's bloodstream.
His suit was clean, unflashy—tailored in a way that whispered authority but not extravagance. He walked like someone who knew where every exit was. No badge visible. No partner. Just his eyes, scanning the crowd.
And then those eyes found hers.
For a split second, Esme froze.
She expected confusion. Disinterest. Maybe nothing at all.
But Liam looked at her like a memory he couldn't quite place.
Like déjà vu had just walked in wearing perfume.
——————————————————
Liam's POV
He'd been watching Dorne for twenty minutes. The man was surrounded by politicians, laughing too loudly, tapping his champagne glass against the mayor's like he didn't have lawsuits buried under his empire.
But then she walked in.
The woman at the top of the stairs.
And Liam forgot about Dorne entirely.
The first thing he noticed was how still she was. Not stiff—still. Like a painting that dared you to speak.
The mask only covered half her face, but he recognized the curve of her mouth. The shape of her eyes.
Esme?
He didn't want to believe it.
Because if it was her, then she wasn't just a florist with shadows in her smile.
She was here for a reason.
And it wasn't to arrange flowers.
——————————————————
Back to Esme
She didn't want to walk toward him.
She did anyway.
It was like gravity—slow, deliberate, inevitable. Her heels clicked softly over the marble, and each step brought Liam closer into focus. When she reached the drink table, he was already there, lifting two glasses.
He offered her one.
"I'm starting to believe you enjoy surprises," he said, voice velvet-lined but watchful.
She took the glass without smiling. "And I'm starting to believe you make them."
"You look different," he said.
"I look like I belong here."
"That's what scares me."
Esme turned, letting her gaze drift over the gala. "Funny. I thought you'd be too noble to attend something like this."
"I'm not noble," he said. "I'm just not good at pretending I don't care who funded the decor."
She looked at him fully now, her eyes flicking over his collar. "No badge tonight?"
"I'm off-duty."
"You never are."
He didn't argue.
———————————————————
The music changed—soft, swelling, romantic.
And for some reason she couldn't name, Esme didn't walk away.
Liam took a step closer. "Dance with me."
Esme blinked. "That's a terrible idea."
"Most of my best ones are."
She hesitated.
But then she slipped her hand into his, and followed him onto the dance floor.
——————————————————
The dance floor was a stage, but no one was watching them. Not really. Too many distractions. Too many donors and scandals in silk.
Esme let Liam lead, but not easily.
Their bodies moved with tension—like two swords tracing arcs in air, waiting for the other to lunge.
His hand on her back was warm. Steady.
Her breath was quiet, but calculated.
"You still haven't asked what I'm doing here," she said.
"I already know," he replied.
"Oh?"
"You're here because you're the one who arranged the flowers."
Esme's pulse jumped.
He noticed.
"How'd you know?"
"There's a way your petal work stands out," he paused. "It's very intentional. Very poetic."
"You think I'm poetic?"
"I think you're artistic. And some." He said, looking at her like he was trying to memorize something he couldn't name.
They turned, slow and measured, like the center of something unraveling.
She leaned in, close enough to smell his cologne—sandalwood and tension.
"Be honest," she whispered. "Are you here for me?"
His jaw clenched. "I don't know yet."
——————————————————
They danced until the silence between them was louder than the music.
Then Esme stepped back.
She didn't say thank you.
She didn't say goodbye.
She just walked off the floor, heart hammering, and disappeared into the side corridor near the kitchen. The lights dimmed the farther she went. She needed air. Space.
She needed to think.
Behind her, she didn't hear Liam follow.
Which is why it startled her when she turned a corner—
And saw Silas Dorne.
Alone.
——————————————————
He was checking his phone, grumbling about something under his breath. The corridor was empty. Just him, the flicker of a wall sconce, and the click of her heels echoing softly off the tile.
Esme reached into her clutch.
Her delivery device—a folded silk flower soaked in digitalis. Enough to slow the heart, make it look like cardiac arrest. No pain. No trace. Just… justice.
She could do it now.
She should do it now.
But then she heard it.
Footsteps.
Behind her.
She turned—quick, defensive—
And Liam was there.
Watching.
Eyes wide.
He hadn't seen the flower. But he'd seen something.
And she saw it in his face—the first crack in the glass.
Esme stepped forward, letting the flower fall silently back into her bag.
"I got lost," she said smoothly.
Liam didn't respond.
Didn't move.
He just looked at her like he wanted to speak and couldn't find the words.
Like she was the answer to a question that terrified him to ask.
And then—
His phone buzzed.
He looked down.
Anonymous Tip: The Thorn walks tonight. Wearing midnight. Holding death.
Liam looked up.
Esme had already turned the corner.