Aria padded softly down the dimly lit hallway, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet.
She stopped in front of the door of Damien's private study.
She knocked softly.
Silence.
"Damien?" Aria called out, keeping her voice low.
Nothing but the faint, ambient hum of the central air conditioning answered her.
Aria frowned. She placed her hand on the brass lever and pushed the door open, stepping into the dark room.
"Damien, I need to—"
The words died in her throat.
The study was pitched in near-total darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Damien was shirtless and sitting at his mahogany desk. He was slumped forward, his face resting on the polished wood.
Aria stepped closer, her eyes adjusting to the dark.
Resting next to his elbow was an empty bottle of Macallan. And next to the glass was a small, orange prescription bottle. The white cap was off, tossed carelessly aside.
Aria's breath hitched.
