Thick ribbons of grey smoke curled lazily into the dark, conditioned air of Damien's home office.
The Sinclair Penthouse was utterly silent. Down the hall, safely tucked into the center of the massive king-sized bed, Aria was fast asleep. The quiet peace of the apartment was a stark contrast to the storm currently raging inside Damien Sinclair's mind.
He sat behind his organized mahogany desk, shrouded in shadows.
He was dressed in nothing but a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants. His silver hair was slightly messy, falling effortlessly over his forehead. A pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, the harsh, blue glow of his laptop screen reflecting sharply in the lenses.
To his right, sitting next to a half-empty pack of cigarettes, was a crystal tumbler filled with two fingers of amber scotch.
He took a slow drag of his cigarette, his golden eyes narrowing as he scrolled through the dossiers Ken had compiled and sent an hour ago.
