The room was dimly lit, filled with the aroma of aged wine and blooming orchids. Seraphina sat poised on a velvet settee in her penthouse suite, her long black gown cascading like liquid ink, a slit running dangerously up her thigh. Her fingers traced the rim of a crystal glass, the red wine within catching the dim chandelier glow like blood caught mid-spill.
Her phone rang, slicing through the thick silence.
She hesitated, lips curling in distaste. Whoever it was, they were either desperate or stupid.
Finally, she picked up, voice like ice cracking over fire.
"Speak."
Bianca's voice crackled through the speaker, fast, nervous.
Seraphina raised an unimpressed brow. "And who," she said dryly, "is this porcelain doll pretending to call me with purpose?"
"It's Bianca," came the quiet reply.
A pause.
Then Seraphina's expression shifted—mild intrigue blooming into wicked delight.
"Ooh…" she purred, swirling her wine slowly. "Hi, Luca's old mistress."
