The humid air in the apartment felt different than it had that morning. It was thick with the scent of lavender-infused steam and a strange, fragile sense of domesticity that Ambrose Ward wasn't accustomed to. He stood in the narrow hallway of Sandmere Springs, his hand hovering near the frosted glass of the bathroom door. He had intended to give a polite, professional warning—a signal that the master of the house had returned from the inner sanctum of the Provincial Committee.
But before he could draw breath to speak, the door clicked and swung open.
The world seemed to sharpen into a singular, breathtaking image. Gwendolyn Preston stood there, framed by a billowing cloud of white steam. She was wrapped in a plush towel that barely reached mid-thigh, her skin flushed a deep, petal-pink
