The dress was a scream in a room full of whispers.

It was a custom shade of crimson—the color of a vintage wine or a fresh wound. It clung to Selene’s curves like a second skin, with a neckline that plunged just enough to be dangerous and a slit that revealed the sharp, elegant line of her leg with every step. Silas had chosen it for a reason. In the high-society world of the New York Yacht Club, where the walls were covered in polished teak and the air smelled of old money and pipe tobacco, the red dress was a declaration of war.