THE BILLIONAIRE'S PHOENIX

I want to kill him.

The urge is so potent, so all-consuming, that it takes every ounce of my willpower to remain still, to keep my hands clasped gracefully around the champagne flute instead of reaching for a weapon. The vision is vivid: the satisfying jerk of his body, the brilliant, shocking crimson blooming across his crisp white shirtfront. I can almost see it oozing out, drenching the polished floor in a shimmering, wet stain.

A slow smile touches my lips as I swirl the pale gold liquid in my glass. Satisfied? Perhaps. I have mentally sketched out fifty different ways to end Ethan Croft, and yet, it never feels like enough. The hatred is a fire that burns brighter and hotter than anything else I have ever felt.

"Miss Ashford, I am so delighted to see you tonight."

The voice pulls me out of my head. I divert my attention from the scumbag across the room to the lovely woman now standing before me. Dahlia Johansson offers a broad, genuine smile. She is the legendary organizer of this fashion show and the director of Aethelred House, a name that commands reverence in American fashion. Receiving her personal invitation two months ago was a shockwave through the industry. But then again, who am I kidding? I had well expected the exclusive envelope to arrive at my doorstep. My current collection has set the world on fire, and Aethelred House needs my name.

"You are too kind, Dahlia," I say, flashing a perfect smile. "The show was amazing. I loved the last segment with all the black and white pieces."

Her eyes light up. "Precisely! It's about the narrative. I told the team, we are not just dressing bodies, we are draping characters in a story. And your work, Vanessa, has that very same cinematic quality. It's why I knew you simply had to be here."

She then laughs, a light, tinkling sound that perfectly suits the surroundings. "I look forward to working with you, Miss Ashford."

We make a bit more small talk about fabrics and trends before someone calls her away. As soon as she's gone, my eyes snap back to where he was standing.

He's gone.

My heart does a little jump. Did he leave? No, he can't have. The party is just getting started. I start moving through the crowd, trying to look casual as I scan the room.

The after-party is in a cool, industrial-looking loft. The ceiling is high, with big, modern art pieces hanging down. Everyone is dressed in their best, wearing crazy-expensive outfits and sipping cocktails. The whole place buzzes with noise and energy.

"Vanessa!"

The shrill call of my name cuts across the sophisticated din. I turn to see Samantha Falls waving enthusiastically. I had the profound misfortune of being seated next to her during the show. She is a minor television actress and a professional talker, who spent the entire hour rambling about her auditions and her co-stars. She has now