The air outside the warehouse was thick with the scent of oil and damp concrete. Rosalind adjusted her jacket, her body still thrumming with adrenaline as the group moved swiftly toward Tristan’s black Maserati. The night was far from over.
Amilia slid into the passenger seat, glancing at Rosalind through the rearview mirror. “So, are we going to talk about how Nicholas just walked away?”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. He started the engine, the low purr vibrating beneath them. “He didn’t walk away. He’s repositioning.”
Chloé, sitting beside Rosalind, exhaled sharply. “He has a head start, then. We need to move.”
Rosalind tapped her fingers against her thigh, her mind racing. Nicholas had always been dangerous, but tonight—tonight, something was different. His confidence wasn’t just bravado.
