“Do you see what you’ve done?”
I froze, my pulse hammering in my ears as I peered through the floor-to-ceiling window of Andrew’s private study. The city lights outside blurred into streaks, but the room before me was sharply etched in a terrifying clarity. I could see it all—the power, the violence, the raw, unfiltered fury of Andrew Villamor.
I hadn’t meant to be here. I hadn’t meant to see this side of him. But curiosity had dragged me along, my hands fidgeting with the hem of my blouse as I silently observed.
Two men were restrained in the center of the industrial-style loft. Their faces were bruised, eyes wide with a combination of fear and disbelief. One had tried to laugh at Andrew earlier, probably thinking he could intimidate him or negotiate, and now that laugh had long turned
