“Clarice.”
Elena had barely steadied herself against the mirrored wall of the elevator when she recognized the woman. Daniel’s voice cut through the hallway beyond, sharp with recognition and a hint of warning.
Clarice Manchester stood before them in a impeccably tailored Louis Vuitton tweed suit, the fabric hugging her slender frame with the kind of effortless precision that screamed old money and deliberate presentation. Her long, wavy ginger curls cascaded down her back like flames caught in motion, and her signature perfume—rich, heady, and overpowering, a blend of oud, jasmine, and something sharper—filled the confined space like an unwelcome claim, clinging to every surface.
She cast a dismissive glance at Elena, her perfectly lined eyes flicking over her with the barest acknowled
