Cyril
The liquid in the crystal glass was amber and deceptively cool.
I could feel the condensation slicking my palms as I stared into the depths of the drink Miller had poured.
Every nerve in my body, every instinct Alan had sharpened in me over years of chess-like maneuvers and corporate survival, was screaming a warning.
It was a high-pitched frequency in the back of my skull, telling me that taking anything from a stranger was a breach of the fortress.
But I was so thirsty.
My throat felt like it had been scorched by the acidic tears I’d shed in the Uber, and the anger…that hot, jagged fury….was a living thing in my chest, demanding to be drowned.
I needed the world to go quiet. I needed the image of Miranda’s hands on Alan’s chest to be erased, burned away by the sting of
