~ Lucien ~
The air in the boardroom was thick with the scent of stagnant power and the sharp, metallic tang of Adrian Vale’s desperation. It was a delicious cocktail. I leaned back in the ergonomic leather chair, the fine Italian wool of my suit jacket feeling far more restrictive than the skin-to-skin heat of the previous night.
Across the mahogany table—a slab of wood that cost more than a mid-sized sedan—sat the "Perfect Wife."
Seraphina was a portrait of frozen elegance. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the table, her breath hitching in a rhythm only I was tuned to hear. I watched the blood drain from her face, leaving her skin like fine porcelain under the harsh fluorescent lights. She looked like she had seen a ghost, but I wasn't dead. I was very, very real,
