The lock on Diana Sinclair's bedroom door was insulting.
It was a simple, vintage tumbler mechanism—the kind of lock that kept out polite people, not a determined sister-in-law with a bobby pin and a deadline.
Aria knelt on the plush runner of the hallway, listening for footsteps. The coast was clear. The staff were too busy hyperventilating over her "Wagyu Slider" menu change downstairs, and Diana was presumably in the wine cellar "quality testing" the inventory as ordered.
Aria slid the pin in. Twist. Click.
The door swung open.
"Too easy," Aria whispered, slipping inside and closing the door behind her.
If Damien's room was a masculine sanctuary of leather and cedar, Diana's room was a beige purgatory. Everything was cream, ivory, or eggshell. The curtains were heavy silk, the carpet was plush enough to lose a shoe in, and the air smelled of potpourri and repression.
