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Amanda steps through the doorway first.

And the entire room goes silent. I’m not exaggerating.

One hundred or so people are gathered around the small stage Carter built in the old arboretum. Champagne glasses glint under the warm lights, expensive suits and designer gowns filling the space.

Maybe fifteen women.

The rest?

Men.

Old money. New money.

Entertainment executives.

Typical Hollywood types.

And when they see Amanda?

Their attention locks onto her instantly.

Greedy.

Hungry.

Predatory.

Yeah.

I see it.

And I fucking hate it.

Amanda doesn’t notice—or maybe she’s just used to it by now.

She steps onto the stage with the calm confidence of someone who belongs there.

Which she does.

The pianist begins playing the opening chords.

Amanda lifts her chin.

And then she sings.

Jesus Christ.

The room stops breathing.

Her voice pours through the arboretum like liquid gold, echoing off the marble floors and glass ceiling.

Every head tilts toward her.

Every pair of eyes locks on that stage.

Even the rich assholes who were talking over their champagne five seconds ago are suddenly silent.

Because that voice?