I smelled her before I saw her.
Something expensive and old-world; amber, citrus, and the cold sort of floral that didn’t grow in nature. It smelled like money that hadn’t moved in generations. Like judgment bottled and sold in crystal flacons.
I was slicing raspberries in the kitchen, humming low to myself, still in the soft robe I’d tugged over a tank top after my shower. The penthouse was quiet except for the gentle classical music Damian left playing in the mornings. A strange habit for someone so sharp-edged.
Then I heard it.
The soft chime of the private elevator.
Followed by the unmistakable click of shoes as they struck the marble floor one by one like a gavel calling court into session.
I didn’t flinch. Just reached for another berry, hoping it was Damian.
It wasn’t.
She e
