The rain lashed against the tall glass windows of the upscale lounge on the twenty-third floor, blurring the glittering skyline of the city into streaks of silver and gold. Ophelia Cater sat rigidly on the velvet chair, her manicured fingers clenched around the stem of a wine glass she had barely touched. Her heart hammered in her chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed the storm outside.
Nicholas Draven leaned back in his seat across from her, his sharp jawline illuminated by the low amber lighting. His expression was cold, almost bored, as if he were delivering quarterly reports rather than shattering her world.
"I can't make you my woman, Ophelia," he said flatly. "Not now. Not ever."
The words landed like a slap. Ophelia's breath caught, her dark brown eyes widening in disbelief. "What… what are you saying, Nicholas? After everything—"
