Beatrix leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window, her reflection ghosting over the skyline of the city. She wore a silk slip dress the color of a bruised plum, the fabric clinging to her hips and skimming the peaks of her breasts. In her hand, a crystal tumbler of scotch caught the dying orange light of the sunset.
Arthur sat in the leather armchair behind her, his voice a drone as he dictated an email to his assistant via speakerphone. He didn't look at her. He hadn't truly looked at her in three years. To Arthur, Beatrix was another acquisition, a piece of high-end art to be displayed at galas and ignored at home.
The front door slammed, the sound echoing through the marble foyer. Heavy footsteps stomped toward the living area. Julian entered, smelling of cigarettes and rain. He wore
