Laila's voice was sharp but weary as she let her eyes settle on the man sitting opposite her, his frame stiff with unspent rage.
"Laila… please, if you won't say something that will soothe this heart of mine and calm me down, then leave."
The man shifted in his leather armchair, his jaw tightening until the vein at his temple throbbed.
The fire from the marble hearth flickered across his face, illuminating his stern profile and the deep lines carved into it from years of scheming.
He was none other than Roman's uncle—Griffin Thompson.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint hiss of the logs burning.
Laila leaned forward, her silk gown whispering as it brushed against the floor. Her eyes, cold and calculating, never left his face.
"Back then," she said slowly, her voice dipped in venom, "we planned everything together. We killed your brother… and his wife. Right?"
