The penthouse smelled of lilies and desperation. Floor-to-ceiling glass offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, but inside, the air felt stagnant, weighed down by the oppressive luxury of white marble and gold leaf. Bella lounged on a velvet chaise, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder, her gaze fixed on her phone with an expression of profound boredom.
Her father, Arthur, paced the length of the room, his polished Oxfords clicking sharply. He stopped abruptly as the heavy mahogany doors swung open.
Roman Volkov entered the room like a storm front. He didn't walk so much as occupy the space, his presence expanding to fill every corner. He wore a charcoal suit that struggled to contain the breadth of his shoulders, the fabric strained across a chest that looked carved from granit
