The room was cloaked in half-light, the golden lamps burning low, their glow flickering faintly across the polished floor.
A hush lay over everything — the kind of stillness that made even the ticking clock sound deafening.
The faint scent of cologne and whiskey mingled with the cool night air drifting through the slightly open window.
Abigail stood at the edge of the bed, her silhouette trembling in the dimness.
Her eyes — sharp, hungry, and gleaming with a cruel satisfaction — fixed on the man before her.
Roman lay motionless, his head turned slightly to one side, his lips parted just enough to reveal the calm rhythm of his breathing.
His chest rose and fell with each exhale, steady as a tide, unbothered and unaware of the darkness standing above him.
For a long moment, she simply stared. Her gaze traced every curve, every line of him, as if memorizing the shape of temptation itself.
Then, slowly, she leaned forward, the bedsheet whispering beneath her hand.
