|Serena's POV|
I should've known better. I did know better.
Yet here I am, perched on a velvet barstool at Asphodel, pretending like Derek Hamilton's nasally voice isn't slowly chipping away at the last shreds of my patience. His cologne is cloying—too strong, too sweet—and mixes unpleasantly with the subtle musk of cigars and cinnamon that drifts through the club's air.
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, staring straight ahead at the rows of exotic bottles backlit by glowing crystal. I haven't taken a proper sip. God knows I need one, but the last thing I want is to be even slightly impaired around a man like him.
"So I told the guy—if she doesn't want it, you pay triple. Otherwise, what's the point of buying one of those, right?" Derek barks out a laugh like he's just cracked the
