The transformation of Li Bai was absolute.
She stepped out of the master bedroom of the penthouse, and the air in the room seemed to shift around her. The temperature didn't change, but the weight in the room did. Like the space itself recognized her.
She wasn't wearing the practical, severe business suits she favored for managing the street collections. Those black and gray pantsuits were armor. They told the lieutenants she was working, that she was one of them, that she bled on the same streets.
Tonight she wore a floor-length, backless gown of deep, blood-red silk. The fabric caught the light and held it. When she moved it flowed like water, like blood. Her dark hair was swept up and secured with antique gold pins. They were old. Her father's. Around her neck rested a heavy, flawless jade pendant—a symbol of wealth and entrenched power. It sat perfectly in the hollow of her throat.
She didn't have makeup on. She didn't need it.
