The evening air in downtown Chicago was sharp and biting, the wind sweeping aggressively through the busy streets. Outside the towering glass headquarters of the city's no.1 fashion magazine, a steady stream of employees and models poured out through the revolving doors, eager to head home after a grueling day of shoots and editorial meetings.
Parked illegally right in front of the grand entrance was a dazzling, bright yellow Maserati. Its engine idled with a low, purr, immediately drawing the stares and whispered gossip of everyone walking past.
Behind the wheel sat George Sin. Despite the fading evening light, he wore dark, expensive sunglasses, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles stark white. His jaw was locked tight. His gaze remained entirely fixed on the glass exit, refusing to blink, refusing to let a single person slip past his line of sight.
He was waiting for her.
