The air in the Obsidian Mansion was thinner, colder, and smelled faintly of antiseptic—a sharp contrast to the musk and sweat that had filled the bedroom hours before. I stood by the grand window, watching a black helicopter descend through the mist onto the private pad.
"They’re here," Adrian’s voice came from the doorway.
He was dressed in a charcoal suit, looking every bit the ruthless tycoon. There was no trace of the man who had pinned me to the bed with such feverish hunger just a few hours ago. He walked toward me, his eyes flicking to the nightstand where the monitor sat.
82 bpm.
"You’re remarkably calm for a woman whose time is running out," he remarked, his fingers reaching out to adjust the silver choker. It felt like a ritual now—his way of checking if his property was stil
