Draven's Point Of View
The air inside the top-floor penthouse office was suffocating, thick with the mingled scents of aged scotch, expensive leather, and the sharp, cloying perfume Lucy had practically bathed in before crossing our threshold. She'd sprayed it like a territorial marker the moment she arrived, claiming space that wasn't hers to claim.
I sat behind my massive black marble desk, fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the cold stone edge, watching her from the corner of my eye. Every tap marked a countdown of my dwindling patience. The sound was deliberate, a warning she seemed determined to ignore.
