Tristan Pierce's towering and powerful figure stood before the floor-to-ceiling French windows on the eighteenth floor of his penthouse. The windows offered a great overview of the city below.
His right hand was cradling a crystal glass of rich red wine. He was sipping on the sweet delight just to pass time. The glass was fine in his palms, his long fingers wrapping around it. It was a tough vessel for the wild passion that burnt within him.
He was blessed with a clear view of the skyline. The noise of the city from below was only a gentle hum blocked out by the impenetrable glass and silence of the vast luxurious space.
The room itself was a perfect blend of style and modern chic. It had dark tiled floors, shiny and highly polished. They reflected the warm, moving firelight of the fire
