The transition from the chaos of the Mayfair gallery to the silence of the Curator’s study was a jarring descent into a different kind of violence—the intellectual kind. When Seraphina opened her eyes, the world didn't tilt; it solidified into an environment of mahogany, leather-bound books, and the sharp, medicinal scent of expensive scotch. She was seated in a wingback chair, her wrists unbound, her midnight-blue velvet dress the only splash of color in a room of muted earth tones.
"Sedatives are a crude necessity in our line of work, Seraphina," a voice drifted from the shadows behind a massive Georgian desk. "But you have a remarkably high tolerance. Most would still be dreaming of the Mediterranean."
Seraphina’s hand went instinctively to her pocket. Empty. The drive she had palmed
