The annual Gresham gala marked the pinnacle of Amber Valley's social season.

Amid this whirlwind of vanity, Elvira Field couldn't shake her sense of alienation.


As the daughter of the Field family and a rising jewelry designer, she should have been at home in such gatherings. Yet tonight, a chill of premonition crept up her spine—like fingers brushing against the rough lining of an antique jewelry box, knowing instinctively that what lurked inside wasn't treasure, but something dark and cold.

Her gaze drifted across the crowd until it landed on tonight's host, Cyrus Gresham.

He stood among several mining magnates, his perfectly tailored tuxedo accentuating his commanding posture.


He sensed her watching and turned slightly, raising his glass in her direction. Something flickered in those steel-gray eyes—a command, not a request.

Elvira lifted her flute, took a delicate sip, and swallowed her unease along with the champagne.


After a year with Cyrus, she'd become fluent in the silent language beneath his composed facade.

Just my designer's intuition working overtime, she told herself.

A phone buzzed faintly from the direction of the terrace. Cyrus checked his screen, nodded curtly to his companions, and strode toward the sound.

Elvira meant to wait, but the stuffiness of the ballroom grew suffocating. She headed for the terrace herself, craving fresh air—and perhaps a moment with him.

The corridor to the terrace stretched quiet and empty. Portraits of Gresham ancestors lined both walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow her under the dim sconces.

The terrace door stood slightly ajar. As she reached to push it open, Cyrus's crisp voice cut through the silence. He was on a call, his tone carrying that unmistakable boardroom chill.

"…Yes, Isabel lands next week. Everything needs to be wrapped up before she returns."

Isabel. Her half-sister, the world-renowned pianist whose elegant performances graced stages across continents.

Elvira's heart dropped, her feet freezing mid-step.

"Elvira?" Cyrus continued, her name falling from his lips like a clinical assessment. "She's been an amusing distraction—passionate, even inspiring at times. But a distraction is still just that—temporary."

The blood in her veins turned to ice. She stood paralyzed, unable to even breathe.

"Lytton, you worry too much." Cyrus's voice carried a hint of impatient mockery. "Using Elvira to push Isabel toward a decision is simply efficient strategy. Isabel needs that perfect touch of jealousy to overcome her hesitation. As for Elvira… she believes she's special, that the attention and resources I've given her mean something. It's just business with mutual benefits. She's been having fun."

He paused, his tone hardening to steel: "But now the game ends. Once Isabel returns, Elvira becomes worthless to me. I expect she'll have enough dignity to walk away gracefully. If not…"

Elvira couldn't hear the rest through the roaring in her ears.

The world disappeared behind a deafening static. Game. Distraction. Worthless. End. Each word stabbed like an icicle through her chest.

All those intimate moments over the past year—what she'd thought were glimpses of his true self, his rare indulgences, even funding her exhibition—all just props in his elaborate performance!

She was nothing but bait, a tool to manipulate his real target, a living gauge to measure Isabel's reactions!

The humiliation and heartbreak nearly crushed her lungs. She stumbled backward, her spine hitting the wall with a soft thud. The sound carried in the quiet corridor.

The phone call cut off abruptly. The terrace door swung open.

Cyrus filled the doorway, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floor, backlit by the corridor lights.

Phone still in hand, he showed no hint of panic at being discovered. Those gray eyes—cold as steel—pierced through her, as if trying to strip away her mask and expose the raw wound beneath.

"Elvira?" His voice remained steady, though edged with dangerous inquiry. "How long have you been standing there?"

Rage boiled in Elvira's chest, a primal urge to scream and shatter everything around her.

But her last shred of dignity warned that breaking down would only confirm her weakness, making her the pathetic loser in his little game. She refused to give him that satisfaction.

She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and even managed to curve her lips into her signature aloof smile. "Just passing by. Needed some air." Her voice sounded tight but didn't break. "Heard you were on a call, so I was leaving."

Cyrus studied her face like an appraiser examining a questionable antique.

He stepped aside, clearly unconvinced. "Call's over now. Care to join me? It's getting chilly out here."

As he moved, Elvira's gaze drifted past him to the small bistro table on the terrace.

An open leather portfolio lay there, its pages ruffling in the breeze. On one page, an ink drawing caught her eye like a lightning strike—

A necklace design.

The pendant featured a massive teardrop amber, with thorn-like inclusions trapped inside, wrapped in lifelike silver vines that seemed both protective and imprisoning. That tension-filled design, that exquisite, almost painful beauty… unmistakable!

She'd seen those exact sketches countless times among her mother's papers after her death. Her mother had dreamed of creating a necklace called "Thornheart" using a rare amber specimen, meant to symbolize love's eternal pain and protection. It was her unfinished masterpiece, never shown to anyone outside the family.

Why did Cyrus possess such detailed drawings of the Thornheart? How had he gotten her mother's private designs? What connection did he have to the necklace—or worse, to her mother's "accidental" death?

A second shock wave crashed over her still-reeling mind. That earlier premonition—the cold secret waiting to be discovered—had manifested with brutal clarity. He hadn't just played with her heart; he might be connected to the deepest wound in her life!

The twin revelations collided, strangely birthing an icy calm within her.

Elvira drew in the cold night air, burying her devastation beneath layers of steel. She met Cyrus's gaze with newfound composure. "No, thank you. I'm suddenly quite tired. I think I'll head home."

This retreat wasn't escape—it was strategic withdrawal.

She needed to leave, to uncover the truth about the Thornheart. This had transcended heartbreak—it was now about uncovering secrets that reached into her family's very foundations.

Cyrus searched her face for cracks in her composure. Finding none, he simply nodded. "Fine. Take my driver. I'll call you tomorrow."

He made no move to stop her, offered no explanation.

Without another glance, Elvira turned and walked away down the corridor.

Her steps were measured, her spine ramrod straight—a soldier preparing for war.

Back through the crowded ballroom, the laughter and chatter seemed to come from another world. The champagne smell turned her stomach; the glittering lights burned her eyes.

She slid into the waiting car and slammed the door, sealing herself away from that false world.

Only in that private cocoon did her mask slip, revealing cold fury and diamond-hard resolve. No tears fell—they had crystallized into burning embers in her eyes.

Cyrus Gresham. You think the game is over? No. You've just created your most dangerous adversary—one who knows your every move and has nothing left to lose.

And that Thornheart design is the first weapon in my arsenal.

The car pulled away from Gresham Manor, the estate looming like a sleeping beast against the night sky. Elvira watched it recede, her gaze sharp as a blade.

The rules have changed. Now I'm the one calling the shots.