He walked past her into the suite like she was furniture that had already been paid for, taking in the space with the lazy, proprietary scan of someone doing a routine check on something that belonged to him.
Which it did.
The whole hotel, actually—every floor, every room, every discreet camera angle tucked where lawsuits went to die—but Helena didn't know that yet. And ignorance, in situations like this, wasn't just a disadvantage. It was a limp he enjoyed watching people drag around while pretending they were fine.
The presidential suite was obscene. Not flashy-rich. Obscene-rich. Floor-to-ceiling windows dumped Los Angeles straight into the room, the city sprawled below like a glittering circuit board powered by cocaine, ambition, and terrible decisions. Furniture that cost more than jewelry. Leather so soft it felt illegal.
Marble and gold used sparingly, like punctuation marks for people who didn't need to shout.
