"Drink it, Antonia. Every last drop." Katharine held the crystal to Antonia Lane's trembling lips. The glass caught the penthouse lights and split them into knives. Antonia's mascara ran. Her laugh was a thin, brittle thing. "You can't—" Antonia gagged. "You'll—" "I will what?" Katharine's voice was quiet. Ice. "I'll do what you did to me. To Kennedy. To every smile you stole." Antonia's hands clutched at Katharine's wrists like she'd pull the murderer back. Her fingers left crescent marks on Katharine's skin. The champagne sloshed. Bubbles fizzed like mockery. "Canon will—" Antonia spat the name like a prayer and a threat. "He'll kill you." "Canon won't kill me." Katharine pressed the glass harder. "You die first." Antonia screamed then. High, animal. Sound of a woman who'd always been allowed to shriek and never had a price to pay. The glass slipped. Champagne ran down Antonia's chin, and under the glitter, Katharine saw the pale spread of poison like a stain. "You are sick." Antonia's eyes were red, fever-bright. "You think this makes you noble? You think this makes you brave?" "No." Katharine set the glass on the coffee table. Her hands didn't shake. "It makes me free." Footsteps on the marble. Canon's silhouette filled the doorway: tall, tailored, impossible in black. He moved like someone who expected the world to obey him. His tie hung crooked. There was blood on his