The scent of Zara’s cloying perfume assaults my nostrils the moment I step into her — no, my — study.
The room, once a sanctuary of quiet authority, now feels tainted, too soft, too… Zara. She’s perched on the edge of the large, ornate desk, not behind it, in a display of casual dominance.
Her dress, a silky emerald green, drapes around her rounded stomach, emphasizing her pregnancy, though she's not too far gone.
She looks elegant, yes, but there's a sultriness, a manipulative gleam in her eyes that makes my skin crawl.
“What do you want, Nox?” she asks, her voice a low purr, smooth as the silk she’s wearing. She takes a deliberate sip from a delicate teacup, her gaze never leaving mine.
It's a challenge, a taunt.
“What happened when Tamsin came in yesterday?” I demand, my voice
