The descent into the sub-basement of Vane Tower felt like lowering a coffin into a waterlogged grave. The elevator’s raw steel cage rattled against the concrete shaft, the air turning rapidly from the warm, sandalwood-scented luxury of the upper floors to a freezing, stagnant draft that smelled of damp limestone, rust, and the metallic tang of an ozone-scrubber.
Sarah Vance did not look like the Deputy Mayor of Blackwood anymore. The platinum-blonde chignon had completely unraveled, her hair clinging to her pale cheeks in damp, sweat-soaked strands. The designer gold-and-white gown she had worn to the opera house was torn at the shoulder, dragging in the grey condensation of the elevator floor. Yet, as Jax shoved her forward into the concrete corridor of the holding cells, her sapphire
