Catherine folded the last silk blouse just like she had been doing this exact ritual for nine straight years. She could pack the Ashford Madam's entire wardrobe in her sleep, blindfolded, and probably while solving quantum physics in the back of her mind.
The office bedroom was hushed, the kind of expensive quiet only billions could buy.
Late afternoon light slipped through the blinds in warm golden stripes, painting lazy patterns across the bed where three perfectly organized suitcases lay open like obedient soldiers. Each one categorized by occasion, by mood, by the invisible rules of a woman who never — ever — appeared in public looking anything less than devastating.
She was getting her ready for Hell's Paradise Island.
