Riviera Hotel – Suite 1603, 7:42 P.M.
Selene sat at the edge of the velvet sofa, the city lights of Veyonne spilling in through the wide glass windows, reflections fracturing her face into shards of neon and shadow. The TV was muted, though the headlines screamed in all caps beneath a frozen image of Cassien leaving the Board chamber:
VORTIGER WAR: DRELLE REMOVED. SUCCESSOR IN PLAY.
Her phone lay heavy in her lap, that single text still glowing:
You may have exposed Drelle. But the fire wasn’t his alone.
And the photo of the priest with Leona haunted her vision.
The priest’s face was sharp, deliberate, his eyes like twin lances cutting through pretense. He hadn’t simply officiated a union; he had witnessed transactions, watched and recorded, perhaps judged. Selene’s stomach churned.
