Azura burst through the hotel doors with the force of a woman who had just escaped an emotional hostage situation, nearly clotheslining the poor doorman in the process. He stumbled back with a yelp, his pristine white glove clutching his chest like he'd just witnessed a murder.
"Sorry! Private emergency! Diarrhea of the soul!" she yelled over her shoulder without stopping.
Her head snapped toward the porte-cochère just in time to see two sleek black luxury cars gliding toward the Blackwood family like panthers stalking their prey. The triplets and Kyler stood in a loose formation, waiting, their presence so imposing that even the hotel's marble pillars seemed to lean away from them.
Azura's mind went completely blank.
Not because the cars were beautiful—though they were, obscenely so, probably costing more than her entire wardrobe, her brother's wardrobe, and the combined life savings of three small villages.
