(Shadowed Corner of the Terrace)
"Your lapel pin looks like it came out of a 19th-century Viennese atelier," Alia's said, setting her champagne flute on the stone railing.
Carson's fingers brushed the pin lightly.
"It was my mother's. You've got an eye for jewelry—sharper than your short-sell reports."
"You sent me the Poseidon Project leak," Alia's stepped in, her tuberose perfume laced with threat.
"Why help a rival?"
Carson plucked the gardenia that was slipping from her hair.
"Ten years ago, the night Sterling collapsed, William Sterling called my mother. She'd just been diagnosed with brain cancer. Davies froze the medical fund your family had been backing."
He crushed the flower between his fingers. The petals bled red.
Cold rain slashed across the terrace. Alia's took a step back—straight into a shadow.
Sophie Vance was waiting, phone raised, lips curved into a blade.