–Livana–
I sat with composed elegance inside the private meeting room I'd asked the hotel manager to prepare. The scent of aged mahogany lingered in the air, mixed with the faint trace of floral polish and expensive cologne—mine. The silence was broken only by the soft thud of footsteps, and soon enough, one of my pawns wheeled Bernard Philips inside.
I tilted my head in his direction, sensing the hesitation in his breath, the unease in his step. My unseeing eyes fell in his direction regardless.
His presence? All too familiar.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice cold, detached.
"I... I need to see someone," he murmured, lowering his head. I could feel it rather than see it, like the weight of shame clinging to his shoulders.
"Tyrona?" I inquired sharply.
"No, ma'am. She's already after me. The Madrigal men are after me."
I exhaled slowly, my fingers brushing the smooth edge of the glass beside me. "Then cover that damn face," I said flatly.
