The lounge at The Monarch was bathed in low, moody amber—the kind of lighting designed to make bad decisions look like elegance. Soft jazz melted into the hum of hushed conversations, ice clinking in crystal, and the faint, hypnotic rain brushing against the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city lights.
Sophia stepped into the room, her high heels making a sharp, deliberate rhythm on the dark hardwood before disappearing into the thick Persian rug. She smoothed the front of her dress—a liquid crimson silk that gripped her waist, clung to her hips, and parted in a daring slit up her left thigh. It was dangerous, modern, and completely uncharacteristic of the quiet architect who usually lived in oversized sweaters and paint-stained jeans.
That was precisely the point.
Tonight, there
