The boutique bags in my hand felt lighter than usual as I strutted through the underground parking garage.

My heels echoed sharply on the cold concrete, and the lights above flickered, casting eerie shadows across the rows of luxury cars.

I was still high off the victory.

The media wouldn’t shut up about The Engagement Massacre. Everyone was eating it up.

My DMs were full of anonymous tips, fake apologies, and discreet applause.

But power has a scent. And predators can smell ...