The air in the private atelier in downtown Toronto was thick with the scent of expensive steamed silk, lavender sachets, and the unspoken weight of a decade's worth of tangled histories. This was the first time the four of them had been in the same room since the "miracle" of Arm's recovery, and the atmosphere was a delicate glass sculpture—beautiful, but vibrating with the potential to shatter.
Skyler stood on a circular velvet pedestal, draped in the unfinished ivory silk of her wedding suit. The tailor moved around her like a silent shadow, pinning the lapels. Across the room, Elena was admiring a sage-green gown, her eyes frequently darting toward the doorway where the two men were about to enter.
The heavy oak doors opened, and Arm stepped in. He walked with the effortless, predatory grace of the man who had once ruled the Armitage boardrooms. Beside him was Mild, dressed in a soft charcoal sweater, his hand tucked into the crook of Arm's elbow.
