I perched on the plush couch like the queen I was, legs crossed, champagne glass delicately balanced in one hand. The deep green Castleton pencil skirt and silk white blouse I wore made me feel like the very essence of untouchable wealth—exactly the look I needed when facing the storm that was Leonidas Astor. Around me, shopping bags cluttered the floor like trophies of my conquest.
He needed to know, from the second he walked in, that I was here. That I was moving in. That there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Now, I’m not much of a drinker, but a situation like this required reinforcement. Liquid courage, if you will. By my third glass, the evening had settled in, and finally—finally—I heard the front door unlock.
Showtime.
Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed on the marble
