VANESSA BELMONT
The knock at the door was sharp, insistent—like the person on the other side wanted to break in rather than politely announce their presence. Nathan and I broke apart, my lips still tingling, my pulse still hammering in my throat.
"Expecting room service?" I muttered, sliding off the bar. My legs felt unsteady, and not just from the vodka.
Nathan shot me a look that said shut up and stay behind me. He moved toward the door.
Another knock. Harder this time.
Nathan cracked the door open, his body blocking my view. Then—silence. A long, heavy pause.
And then he stepped back.
Fiona Grand walked in.
I blinked. Then blinked again. Because that was definitely Fiona—same sharp cheekbones, same perfectly white lace dress, same air of fake innocence. Except—
Except she'd been crushed under a chandelier not even an hour ago. I'd seen it. Blood, broken glass, broken Fiona, the whole dramatic finale.
And yet here she was, pristine, not a hair out of place.
