A sprawling, tiered layout featuring plush leather sectional sofas, a polished mahogany bar stocked with top-shelf liquor, and a sprawling catered spread of sushi, seared steak, and chilled oysters.
But the real draw was the view.
The front of the suite was a wall of slanted, soundproof glass, offering a towering, unobstructed vantage point of the brightly lit hardwood court far below. The stands were a sea of screaming fans, bathed in the blinding glare of the arena lights, but inside the box, the roar of the crowd was muted to a low, distant hum.
It was an isolation tank suspended above twenty thousand people.
Zara walked slowly toward the glass, her coat slipping off her shoulders. Ryan caught it before it hit the floor, laying it over the back of a leather chair.
She pressed her fingertips against the pane, looking down at the players warming up on the court. The stadium lights caught the sheen of her dark hair, illuminating the sharp, flawless curve of her profile.
