Vesta's POV
The amber liquid swirled in my glass as soft jazz drifted from the corner speaker, mixing with the steady burn of cigarette smoke that hung thick in the dimly lit room. Half my drink was gone, but the fire spreading through my chest told me it was doing its job perfectly. The sharp scent of tobacco clung to everything.
Quentin lounged in the chair opposite me, his shirt buttons undone just enough to show he didn't give a damn about anything tonight. His eyes were heavy with satisfaction, like a cat who'd finally caught the mouse he'd been stalking for months.
The television cast shifting patterns of blue and gold across his relaxed features. When Silas's face appeared on screen again with the headline *VALERIUS'Empire Empire Faces Major Investment Crisis*, Quentin burst into laughter that echoed off the walls.
"Well now," he drawled, lifting his tumbler in a mock toast. "Seems the mighty king just got knocked off his throne."
