I recognized the color instantly.
Years ago, I used to press suits that shade with careful hands, believing—naively—that love could soften arrogance.
The same polished smile curved across his lips now. The one that had once disguised lies as charm.
Beside him sat Lillian Moore—once his assistant, now his partner.
Her copper hair was styled to command attention she hadn’t truly earned, and her sharp eyes scanned me carefully, like she was silently taking inventory.
Her dress was expensive.
But too precise. Too calculated.
It wasn’t fashion.
It was a statement.
At the far end of the table sat Eleanor Walsh, Adrian’s mother.
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