~ Lucien ~
The air on the glass-walled terrace of the Pierre Hotel was a blade of ice, a welcome relief from the stifling, perfume-heavy heat of the ballroom behind me. I stepped out, the heavy glass door clicking shut with a mechanical finality that severed the sound of the string quartet to a dull, rhythmic throb. I didn’t look at the view of Central Park or the glittering, indifferent skyline of Manhattan. I had no interest in the architecture of the city tonight. I was tracking a single target.
I found her at the far end of the terrace. Seraphina was standing by the waist-high stone railing, her silhouette framed by the cold, electric glow of the city below. She was wearing a dark silk dress that shimmered like spilled oil, but the expensive fabric couldn’t mask the way her shoulders
