I entered the study, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The scent of old books, leather, and aged Scotch hung heavy in the air - the ultimate signature of power. Trevor stood by the far wall, his silhouette imposing as he drew the heavy velvet curtains shut against the vast estate outside. The towering oak trees were swallowed by the fabric, casting long, jagged shadows across the room.
I glanced at the mahogany desk. Resting on the very top was a leather binder with Freya Miller embossed in gold.
Surrounding it, like a grisly collage of my failed life, were scattered photographs - Jacob and Betsy clothes shopping, kissing in a crowded restaurant, leaning over a velvet tray of engagement rings.
"It’s rude to look through a man’s desk, Freya," Trevor said. His voice was a low vibratio
