The heavy oak doors of the living room swung open, and Harvey strode in, shedding his tailored cashmere overcoat. He carried the crisp scent of rain and the undeniable aura of a man used to the world bending to his every whim.
"Serena? Didn't you hear me?" he called out, his brow furrowing slightly as he stepped into the main salon.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
The woman standing by the fireplace was not the fragile, porcelain doll he had left behind five days ago. The floor-length, bone-straight black hair that had taken three years of meticulous, chemical-free maintenance to achieve was gone. In its place was a choppy, uneven bob that barely brushed her collarbones. It looked as if she had taken a pair of kitchen scissors to it herself—which, in fact, she had.
But it was her clothe
