The chill that radiated from Ulysses Yates was a tangible force, far colder than the air-conditioned atmosphere of the grand ballroom. For Preston Montgomery, the remaining haze of the expensive Romanée-Conti evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, prickling sweat that drenched his tailored shirt.
His hand, which had been aggressively clutching the hotel manager’s collar just a moment ago, began to tremble uncontrollably. He released his grip so fast it was as if the fabric had turned into white-hot iron. With a pathetic, fawning motion, he reached out and tried to smooth the very wrinkles he had created on the manager’s lapel.
The manager let out a sharp, derisive snort. With the Proprietor standing directly behind him, his professional restraint transformed into open mockery. He adju
