Sophia stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in Christoph’s charcoal bathrobe, clutching the lapels like the robe might flee the scene before she did. Her hair was damp, her cheeks pink from overscrubbing, and her dignity hanging by a thread.
Then she saw the suite again.
The destruction somehow looked worse after a shower. The broken lamp. The decimated vase. The scattered legal documents. The laptop resting at an angle that suggested severe internal trauma.
She covered her mouth. “This looks like the police should be called.”
Christoph, who seemed to have washed his face, no trace of her lipstick or the smudged mascara, glanced up at her with a bland expression. “The damage has been cleaned.”
“Cleaned?” Her voice cracked. “This looks like an archaeological site. We need carb
