The car slid to a stop in the garage of the King’s Pavillon.
The air crackled with electric energy; a press pack of journalists and cameramen swarmed the entrance, their lenses hungry, their questions sharp. It was a gauntlet, a public display, and I was walking straight into it.
A microphone appeared before my face, a journalist's eager gaze behind it. "Excuse me, ma'am. Your name?"
"Fiona Walker," I replied, my voice steady despite the sudden surge of adrenaline. The flashbulbs popped, momentarily blinding.
"And your profession, ma'am? You look as though you might own a club, a very exclusive one, with a lot of hot things going down there," the journalist added, his eyes lingering on my outfit. The camera zoomed in, capturing the details of my dress, the glimmer of the diamonds.
I
