Midnight.
The private chamber Lady Seraphine Voss had chosen was deep within the neutral wing of my clinic — black marble, low lighting, and the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine. She sat like a queen in exile, legs crossed, silver-streaked dark hair pinned severely. Her eyes held the cold calculation of someone who had poisoned her own husband and never lost a night’s sleep over it.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I was attending my patient,” I replied, taking the seat across from her.
Voss’s lips curved. “Your patient. How delicate. We both know Justin Halderman is no longer Supreme in anything but title. Every breath he takes now costs him pride… and costs you control.”
She slid a encrypted tablet across the table.
“Kane has five votes secured. He moves at dawn if you don’t give him
