The fluorescent lights of the Purple Cloud KTV flickered with a rhythmic, almost nauseating pulse, casting long, jagged shadows against the gold-leaf wallpaper of the corridor. As the group filed into the private lounge, the air grew thick with the scent of ozone and expensive cologne. Nicholas Johnson walked at the head of the pack, his stride regaining its practiced, corporate confidence.
Behind him, Jessica Beil moved like a ghost of her former self. The vibrant, sharp-tongued socialite had been silenced, her shoulders hunched as if trying to shield herself from the cold, judgmental gazes of her peers. For seven years, she had defined herself in opposition to Christian Hobbs, and in a single afternoon, that identity had been shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
The rest of the al
