The aftermath of Victoria's visit hung over the penthouse like a thick, heavy mist. Reyansh had spent the entire night behind the closed doors of his private office, his presence felt only by the low, rhythmic pacing of his footsteps and the occasional, muffled sound of his voice on a conference call.

Anya had stayed in the bedroom, staring at the dark red silk sheets, unable to find sleep. Her mind was a carousel of images: Victoria's cold emerald eyes, the arrogant curve of her lips, and the terrifying, poisonous things she had hinted at.