CHAPTER 127
The heavy oak door had clicked shut nearly an hour ago. Yet, even in the emptiness, the ghostly and intoxicating scent of Lucian—that seamless, heady, and utterly addictive mix of expensive sandalwood, the sharp cold rain, and something fundamentally ancient—still lingered in the stagnant air.
It was a sensory ghost, wrapping itself around Isabella's senses and acting as a constant, invisible reminder of the formidable man who had only just left her side.
Isabella stood rooted to the spot in the center of the master suite as she absorbed the strange hum of the sudden and absolute silence.
For agonizing weeks, this room had been her beautiful, gilded cage—a prison of silk and silver.
She had paced these polished floors until she knew every minute, swirling knot in the dark wood and every single intricate gold thread woven into the heavy, midnight-blue velvet drapes.
