At the presidential suite on the top floor of the hotel, Sinclair casually hung his suit jacket by the entrance before gently undoing his cufflinks.
His lowered eyes gleamed with a darkness that sent chills down the spine.
These were a gift from Camilla—he couldn't bear to dirty them.
He lit a cigar and strode unhurriedly toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.
From this prime location in the heart of the city, the most breathtaking and vibrant urban panorama sprawled effortlessly beneath him.
Yet none of the bustling streets or glittering lights below reflected in his narrowed, obsidian eyes.
Pale gray smoke curled upward in delicate wisps before dissolving into the air, veiling his refined, aristocratic features in an elusive haze.
Only the growing shadow in his gaze remained unmistakably sharp.
"After hiding for so long, I'm still not ready to show yourselves?"
His icy, low voice shattered the silence without warning.
