The storm outside rattled the windows, the rain hammering against the glass as if it, too, sensed the tension in the air. The dim lighting in the penthouse cast elongated shadows across the walls, making everything feel more suffocating, more dangerous.
Lola stood near the fireplace, her fingers gripping the stem of a half-empty wine glass. Her pulse throbbed in her throat, but she refused to let her nerves show. This moment had been coming for a long time, and now that it was here, she needed to stand firm.
The door creaked open, and Desmond stepped inside. He was drenched, his wet shirt clinging to his chest, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. He shut the door with deliberate slowness, his movements controlled, calculated.
"You made it." Lola’s voice was even, though
