The sharp, metallic scrape of a fork against porcelain cut through the heavy air of the penthouse kitchen.
Zara had laid out a spread of charcuterie on the massive marble island—aged cheddar, cured meats, dark olives, and sliced figs. It was casual, effortless.
She sat on her barstool with her knees pulled up to her chest, clad in Ryan's oversized grey sweatpants and a thin white tank top. She looked entirely at home.
Diana Lockridge, sitting two feet away, looked like she was suffocating in an airless vacuum.
The slate-grey pencil skirt bound her knees together.
The sheer black lace bodysuit she wore beneath her discarded trench coat offered zero protection from the ambient chill of the room, or from the burning, predatory gaze Zara kept pinned on her.
