The lobby of the penthouse suite shimmered with soft gold light, casting long shadows against marble floors. Brandon stood by the window, a glass of red wine in his hand, eyes fixed on the city skyline. The darkness outside was vast and glittering, hiding secrets like teeth behind a smirk.
The suite door burst open without a knock.
Anya stormed in, her hair wild, one heel broken, blood crusted near her lip. The scent of motel disinfectant and adrenaline clung to her. She didn't wait for permission—just slammed the door shut behind her and strode across the room like a fury loosed from the underworld.
"He got away," she snapped.
Brandon didn't turn around. He swirled the wine lazily in his glass, his reflection barely visible in the glass pane.
"I figured."
