The crystal flutes chimed, a dissonant chorus of forced celebration echoing through the Vysotsky Tower penthouse. Halina, draped in silk lace that felt like a shroud, forced a tremulous smile. Every murmured congratulation, every fleeting touch, was a razor-thin wire she had to navigate without faltering. The air itself, thick with the scent of white roses and expensive champagne, seemed to press down on her, threatening to crack the polished facade of Karolina Sienko. Her murdered best friend’s name felt like a curse on her own tongue. The diamond on her left hand felt less oppressive than the gold band now encircling her ring finger, a physical tether to the man across the room. Adrian Volkov, her new husband, leaned against a polished obsidian pillar, his profile a study in elegant indifference. His tailored suit, the shade of a winter sky, did nothing to soften the chill that emanated from him. He was a man carved from ice and ambition, the CEO of Volkov Innovations, and, she suspected, the key to unlocking the truth behind her friend’s death. He met her gaze across the throng, a brief, assessing flick of his dark eyes that sent a tremor through Halina, not of fear, but of challenge. “My dear bride,” a voice, sharp as cut glass, pierced through the din. Elzbieta Volkov, Adrian’s aunt and the matriarch of the family’s old guard, advanced, her silver gown shimmering like moonlight on a glacier. A single, heavy emerald necklace glittered at her throat, a stark contrast to the small, unadorned silver pendant she held between her manicured fingers. “Such a vision. Though I must confess, you look…different today. Marriage, I suppose, does wonders.” Halina’s smile felt brittle. “Aunt Elzbieta. It is wonderful to see you.” She hoped her voice carried the dead girl's inherent softness, not Halina’s own customary bite. Inside, a familiar heat began to simmer. Elzbieta Volkov had been a viper even to the rightful heiress. Elzbieta’s gaze, the color of tarnished pewter, swept over Halina, lingering on her dress, then her face. “Indeed. So much has changed. I brought a little something for you. A token, from the past.” She extended her hand, the chain dangling from her fingertips. “This was yours, you know. Your mother’s, before that. A simple thing, but you cherished it. Said it reminded her of simpler times, before… all this.” Elzbieta gestured vaguely at the opulent celebration. “I thought you might appreciate its sentimental value. A reminder, perhaps, of what you represent now.” The keepsake was unmistakable. A plain silver oval, unpolished, bearing a faint scratch near its clasp – a mark made in childhood while trying to carve initials. Halina’s fingers trembled almost imperceptibly as she took it. The cool metal felt like a brand. Elzbieta wasn’t gifting her a memento; she was setting a trap, dangling a piece of the past as a test, a veiled threat. Any overt reaction – too much emotion, too little – could give her away. The urge to crush the silver, to snarl at the woman, was a physical ache behind Halina’s ribs. She swallowed it down, forcing her expression into one of quiet, almost wistful gratitude. “How… thoughtful, Aunt Elzbieta,” Halina managed, her voice a little breathier than usual. She clasped the trinket in her palm, turning it over. “It truly is beautiful. I will treasure it.” She hoped the slight pause, the careful framing, sold the performance. Elzbieta’s lips thinned, a hint of something unreadable in her eyes, before she gave a curt nod and moved on, leaving Halina feeling as though she’d just escaped a close-range sniper shot. A hand landed lightly on her shoulder, making her flinch. Krystian ‘Krys’ Janowski, flamboyant in a cerulean silk suit, leaned in, his whisper a conspiratorial hiss. “She’s less a matriarch and more a gargoyle, wouldn’t you agree? I saw that little performance. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the spark in your eyes, darling. The real bride would have dissolved into tears and thanked her profusely for the… privilege.” He winked, then straightened. “Well, if you need a breather from this circus, I’ll be sampling the caviar and compiling my mental list of fashion atrocities.” He vanished into the crowd, leaving Halina with a sliver of relief and a renewed sense of purpose. The reception wore on, each passing minute a drain on Halina’s meticulously crafted composure. The silver oval, now tucked into her gown’s inner pocket, felt like a burning coal against her skin. She needed to breathe. She needed to think. And she needed to get into Adrian’s study. Feigning a sudden, throbbing headache, a plausible consequence of the day’s stress and the suffocating perfume of the assembled guests, Halina excused herself with a murmured apology to a cluster of distant cousins. The Volkov penthouse was a labyrinth of glass and steel, but Halina had studied its schematics, every server room, every surveillance blind spot, long before she’d stepped into an heiress's shoes. She slipped away from the main ballroom, her heels barely whispering on the polished marble floors. The corridor leading to Adrian’s private wing was deserted, as expected. His personal study was nestled at the end, a fortress within a fortress. The door presented a simple biometric scanner. Halina held her breath, pressing her thumb to the pad. The scanner glowed green. Her predecessor's biometrics remained active in the database, a small mercy. The study was a stark chamber of dark wood and brushed titanium, dominated by a massive desk and a wall of monitors displaying complex data streams. The air hummed with dormant power. Halina moved with practiced efficiency. No time for sentiment, no room for error. She bypassed the desk terminal, opting instead for the discreet access panel hidden behind a rotating bookshelf. Her gloved fingers, nimble and precise, danced across the interface. The Volkov Innovations security system was legendary, designed to be impenetrable. She had cracked deeper firewalls than this before adopting an heiress's name, and impossible locks were second nature. Lines of code flowed across the miniature screen embedded in her wrist-mounted device. She wasn’t brute-forcing, but weaving through the system’s own pathways, exploiting its blind trusts. A soft chime, almost inaudible, confirmed her entry into Adrian’s private network. She navigated through layers of encrypted files, past proprietary algorithms and nascent project outlines, her mind a whirlwind of data. Then she saw it. A folder, prominently displayed among the critical files, bore a single, enigmatic label: “Onyx Dove.” Recognition registered, cold and precise. This was it. This was the phrase whispered during that final, frantic phone call. The connection was undeniable. Halina clicked, but the file was heavily encrypted, far beyond the initial layer she’d just breached. It would take time. Time she didn’t have. She copied the encrypted file to a secure, untraceable external drive, her heart thrumming against her ribs. The data transfer indicator glowed green, mocking her with its slowness. Just a few more seconds. She felt a shift in the air, a subtle change in the room’s pressure. The faint scent of a high-end cologne. Too close. Halina froze, her hand still connected to the panel. Her body, trained for stealth, instinctively recognized the silent approach. She didn’t turn, didn’t breathe. She tried to pull her hand away, but the drive was still downloading, a tiny, glowing beacon of her deception. Panic, cold and sharp, constricted her throat. “Lost, Karolina? Or are you looking for something?”

A Vow of Glass