Page 16 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

White orchids line the walls in carefully curated excess, their petals bruised with gold accents that reflect the overhead lights. Champagne flutes clink softly, laughter floating effortlessly across the room. Everything about tonight is polished, exactly the kind of environment I need to advertise my brand in.

I smile until my cheeks ache and redden.

Adrian stays two steps behind me, as usual, in a dark suit, with his white shirt open at the chest, revealing the dark ink across his skin. He’s a masterpiece.

That unreadable expression is carved into his face, as if God personally molded him to intimidate. I don’t turn to check on him. I never do anymore, because I know he’ll be there and, strangely enough, that fuels my ego even more.

My heels click against the marble, my eyes lighting up as the mayor of New York approaches, his wife clasped onto his arm like a proud accessory.

“Elena Rossi,” he says warmly, extending a hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“The pleasure is all mine, sir,” I reply, voice smooth, chin lifted.

His wife practically beams. “I just love your serums. I tell him all the time; if I could bathe in them, I would.”

I laugh softly, pride welling up in my chest. If the mayor’s wife loves it, then she’ll definitely say it to one or two people. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment, and look how it makes you glow!”

The mayor nods, approving. “My wife hasn’t stopped raving since she attended your last launch in New Jersey. Quality like that doesn’t happen by accident. If you ever need anything—connections, permits, support—please don’t hesitate to reach out.”

There it is. The hook I’ve been trying to get him and some other prospects on.

I thank him politely, already calculating how useful that sentence could be during my next launch, a few months from now.

The mayor moves on, dragged away by another enthusiastic brand owner, probably seeking support as well.

As I watch his wife, I can’t help but think of Melanie, my stepmother. Same mannerisms and stature, except Melanie always played favorites.

And as much as I hate to admit that I was on the receiving end of her favoritism as opposed to my older twin sister, Bella, that was the beginning of mine and Bella’s undoing.

After shit hit the fan, Melanie fled to a small town in Mexico, where she married a small gang leader. Sometimes I wonder how she’s doing, but she’s cut me—her old life—off.

I turn around to smile sweetly at another fan when my eyes lock with her cold, blue eyes.

Camila fucking Drey.

She’s dressed in yellow. A color I don’t think suits her ghostly skin.

“Elena,” she drawls, lips curling in a sardonic smile. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

I turn slowly, schooling my expression into indifference. “Funny. Since I’m a sponsor at the event.”

She smiles wider, predatory. “Yes. With your uncle’s influence, I suppose it’s very easy to sponsor… anything. Unlike me, who’s really struggling to build my brand with just determination and hard work.”

There it is. The slight emphasis on uncle. She never fails to play the independent woman card in my face every time she sees me; meanwhile, she’s a jealous bitch who can’t stand a fellow woman’s success.

That’s how the outside world termed my relationship with Enzo after he took over all of Father’s establishments.

I inhale calmly, already feeling the familiar coil of anger tightening in my chest. “My brand earned its place…”

Camila steps closer, lowering her voice like she’s offering a secret. “Earned it how? With your family’s money? Using pretty privilege? Or are you sucking dicks now to keep engagement up?”

I stare at her in disbelief. I knew she’d always retort something stupid, but these words hit harder than I expected. How dare she?

Heat floods my face, not from embarrassment or guilt but out of pure fury. My mouth opens, venomous retorts stacked and ready…

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

Adrian’s voice slices through the space between us like a blade.