KISAREL.
Mr. Stark's text had left no room for interpretation and even less for comfort.
4 AM.
I was up at three, moving through the apartment in the dark, trying not to wake Jace as I pulled myself together. My hands wouldn't cooperate. I dropped my mascara twice. Spent four full minutes staring at my reflection in the mirror like it had personally offended me before grabbing the items I brought in my duffel bag — a knee-length navy dress with a modest neckline, a blazer over it, and low block heels.
I took a cab and sat in the back with my bag on my lap, and my eyes on the city sliding past the window, and tried very hard not to think about what kind of man calls his PA to his private suite at four in the morning.
That's a mini luxury apartment where he stayed whenever he worked lat
