The air inside the Byron villa was finally breathable. For the first time in months, the heavy, metallic scent of fear had been replaced by the aroma of a home-cooked meal and the faint, sweet sting of celebratory champagne.
They gathered in the private sunroom, Ruby, Max, and Samuel, with Adora wrapped in a thick cashmere throw, tucked safely between them. The windows were shuttered, and the perimeter was crawling with Max's best men, but for tonight, the war was outside those walls.
Adora's voice was thin, but her memory was a razor. She didn't hold back, detailing the hierarchy of the East Wing that had haunted her dreams.
