Draven
Almost reluctantly, her lips parted, and the address spilled out like it had been forced from her. Seventeenth floor. Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms.
When she opened the door, I froze. The apartment was modest, far too modest for a woman like her.
This was Rosé Presley. The same woman who drained me dry with alimony and divorce settlements. The same woman who held the reins of Finance at SNS, a pharmaceutical giant with international acclaim.
And yet, she lived here?
“Take a seat, anywhere you want to.” Her voice was clipped, her tone practically daring me to complain.
I stared at her for a moment, a sharp retort bubbling up before I forced myself to swallow it down. “Thank you. I feel so welcomed,” I said, my words soaked in sarcasm.
Ignoring her lack of response
