The Roaring Twenties were over, and the rainy Baltic had no place to take refuge for me, but there, thousands of miles away, the great penthouse of Richason's corporate tower in New York was flooded with a faux golden light.
A crystal flute of pricey champagne stood between Nielle's manicured fingers while she stood beside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. She was dressed in a custom-made crimson silk gown, which fitted her body flawlessly, from every angle of her body it looked like it was arranged for utmost elegance and vulnerability. She had her gaze on Manhattan's sparkling skyscrapers, but her mind was set only on the vacant executive leather chair behind the big mahogany desk.
The door to the penthouse opened up and Nate walked in. He had been wearing the usual casual style clot
