The DuPont estate was quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
Caroline stormed through the marble-floored foyer like a woman possessed. The heels of her Louboutins clicked with the precision of war drums. A maid tried to greet her; Caroline waved her off like an errant fly. She was still fuming—her nostrils flared, her jaw tight, her hands itching to throttle someone.
"Lucien freaking Moreau," she hissed under her breath as she marched up the staircase. "With his stupid Aston Martin and his glacier eyes and his I-own-the-world attitude."
The second her bedroom door shut behind her, Caroline yanked at the zipper of her dress like it personally betrayed her. "I cannot believe I rear-ended him of all people! Of course he had to be smug. Of course he had to have the entire NYPD wrapped around his stupid French fingers."
