Rose hated Victor’s house at night.In the daylight, it was all power and polish glass walls, marble floors, art that cost more than most people’s lives. But at night, when the lights dimmed and the city glittered below like a kingdom he believed he owned, the place felt like a cage.She stood near the window of his study, fingers curled around the edge of the desk, breathing carefully. Slowly. Steadily. As if one wrong breath might set him off.Victor Grant stood by the bar, his back to her, pouring himself a drink. The clink of ice against crystal sounded too loud in the silence.“You’re late,” he said calmly.“I had to be careful,” Rose replied. “I can’t be seen coming here too often.”Victor laughed softly. It wasn’t warm. It never was.“You live in the enemies house,” he said. “Don’t insult me by pretending discretion suddenly matters to you.”She didn’t answer.He turned then, glass in hand, eyes sharp and assessing as they dragged over her face, her body lingering, calculating.
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