A burly man stepped out of the luxury sedan first, his presence dominated by a thick gold chain nestled in the folds of his neck like a gilded noose. He moved with a practiced, thuggish swagger to the other side of the vehicle and pulled open the rear door with the flourish of a loyal footman.
Then, she emerged. My heart didn't just skip a beat; it hammered against my ribs with a violence that made my vision blur. Emma Hopkins.
I could recognize her if she were reduced to ash. We had spent years tangled in each other's lives, and every curve of her body, every distinctive line of her silhouette, was etched into my brain with the precision of a master engraver. I could map every inch of her skin with my eyes closed. But as I watched her now, a cold, tightening sensation gripped my chest,
