Tavin’s surgery. Tonight. The thought was a sharp spur. The cartel heat off the hospital, now. She needed Maris Lontar out of the picture, permanently. “The gala tonight,” Brekkan continued, his voice dropping to a low growl, “the Thrace-Lontar Unity Gala. Maris plans to announce our ‘impending’ nuptials, along with some charity initiative to boost her public image before the next quarterly review. That announcement needs to be overshadowed. Her public image needs to shatter.” He stepped back, a fraction of an inch, allowing her to breathe, but his intensity never wavered. “You’ll be there. On my arm. And you’ll be undeniable.” Her ribs tightened, but muscle memory took over. She had faced down back-alley debt collectors and chop-shop enforcers. This was just another fight, albeit one fought with smiles and expensive champagne instead of wrenches and fists. “What do I need to do?” she asked, her voice steady. Brekkan’s lips curved into a thin, dangerous smile. “Just be yourself, Riva. The self you’ve shown me. The one who doesn’t back down.” The hours leading to the gala were a blur of activity. Riva was ushered into a sprawling dressing room she hadn’t known existed within the residence, attended by stylists who moved with a detached, practiced grace. They presented her with a gown that seemed to capture and absorb every sliver of light, a masterpiece of dark silk that draped and flowed, accentuating the gentle swell of her form. The bias-cut textile fell midnight black, exposing one shoulder and spilling into a heavy train that swept the marble. It was built for impact, not concealment. As the final clasp was secured, a stylist adjusted a shimmering, multi-faceted necklace that caught the light, a constellation of dark gems. Riva studied her reflection. The woman staring back was not the grease-stained mechanic, nor the meek Shae. This was a force, poised and dangerous, cloaked in elegance. Her pulse accelerated, adrenaline spiking beneath the skin. Brekkan entered, dressed in tailored charcoal. His eyes moved down the line of her throat to the swell of her waist, deliberate and predatory. He offered her his arm, his touch a possessive brand even through the silk of his jacket. “Ready to make an entrance?” The Grand Hall of the Argent Spire, usually a bastion of quiet, understated opulence, was abuzz with the clinking of crystal and the murmur of discreet conversations. The annual Thrace-Lontar Unity Gala was the social event of the season, a carefully curated display of power and alliances. Maris Lontar, a vision in ice-blue, stood on a raised dais, a practiced smile fixed on her face, preparing to address the assembled elite. Her voice, amplified just enough to carry, was a silky promise of future prosperity for the Thrace-Lontar conglomerate. Then the main doors swung open. A hush fell over the room, ripples of silence spreading outward from the entrance. Every head turned. Riva, on Brekkan’s arm, glided into the hall. The obsidian gown caught the ambient light, making her appear sculpted from midnight, a living shadow against the polished marble. The subtle curve of her abdomen, unmistakable now, was highlighted, not hidden. Her expression was serene, regal, a mask of quiet confidence that belied the storm within. This was not the expected demure surrogate; this was a queen claiming her throne. Maris, mid-sentence, froze. Her carefully constructed smile wavered, then crumpled into a snarl of disbelief and fury. Her planned announcement of a joint philanthropic venture, a thinly veiled ploy to consolidate her influence, evaporated into the shocked gasps and excited murmurs that now filled the room. The cameras, initially focused on Maris, pivoted, blinding flashes erupting around Riva and Brekkan. A thousand stares bore into her, lenses clicking in rapid succession, but Riva kept her chin level and locked her sight forward. This was for Tavin. This was for revenge. Brekkan’s hand settled protectively on the small of her back, a silent claim. He leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. “That’s how you make an impression,” he murmured, a note of dark satisfaction in his voice. Maris, red-faced and shaking, stumbled down from the dais, her eyes blazing with a dangerous desperation. She hissed into a tiny comm-link concealed in her ear, her words clipped and venomous. Across the room, two operatives in dark Lontar security livery began to advance, tracking Riva. One fumbled at a control panel near a fire alarm station, while the other began to circle, subtly positioning himself to cut off Riva’s retreat. A high-pitched, metallic shriek ripped through the air – the fire alarm, triggered prematurely. Panic began to ripple through the crowd, a sudden jostling as guests instinctively moved towards the exits. The Lontar guards surged forward, aiming to exploit the chaos, to snatch Riva amidst the confusion. But before they could close the distance, the shrill alarm suddenly cut out. The emergency lights, which had just flickered on, snapped back to normal. A calm, authoritative voice, amplified through the public address system, cut through the residual tension: “Attention, esteemed guests. A minor technical anomaly has been detected and resolved. There is no fire. Please remain calm.” The voice belonged to Madame Zora Thrace. She stood in the entrance of the VIP lounge, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. With a subtle gesture of her hand, the heavy doors of the lounge slid shut with an almost imperceptible whir, sealing Maris inside with Riva and Brekkan. Maris hammered on the opaque glass, her face contorted in a mask of impotent rage. “Open these doors! Zora, what are you doing?!” Madame Zora merely gave a small, graceful bow. “Ensuring a private discussion, dear Maris. Some matters are best handled away from… prying eyes.” The trap was sprung. Maris, cornered, her empire crumbling around her, her face a mask of primal fury, reached into the shimmering clutch she carried. Her hand emerged, gripping a small, dark object. A ceramic pistol, sleek and almost invisible against her pale skin. She leveled it, the barrel glinting faintly under the subdued lounge lighting, directly at Riva’s stomach. “You will not take this from me!” she shrieked, her voice raw with desperation. “Not this!”

The Obsidian Gown