The grip on Madeline’s arm was bruising by the time Graves shoved her through the office door. She stumbled inside, catching herself against the edge of a heavy oak desk.
The room smelled faintly of leather and expensive cigars, lit by a single lamp in the corner. But Graves didn’t stop there — he went straight to a panel in the far wall and pressed his palm against it. With a quiet click, a seam appeared in the wood. The wall swung open, revealing a second space beyond, twice the size of the office.
It was lavish in a cold, masculine way — deep red rugs, dark wood furniture, a polished bar already lined with crystal glasses and half-empty bottles.
“Now this,” Graves said, stepping inside with a sweep of his arm, “is where we celebrate.”
Greg was already there, leaning against the bar
