The command hung in the heavy, wine-soaked air of the penthouse kitchen, brutal and absolute.
Diana stood frozen, the crumpled pile of her slate-grey skirt resting against her expensive Italian heels.
Her chest heaved, the sheer black lace of her bodysuit clinging to skin slick with cold sweat.
The silence stretched, thick enough to suffocate in, broken by the relentless drum of rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass and the ragged, shallow sawing of her own breath.
She looked at Ryan. The sharp, immovable lines of his face offered zero sanctuary. He wasn't negotiating.
Her gaze slid sideways to Zara.
The supermodel sat perched on the barstool, her bare legs swinging lightly, her dark eyes glittering with a feral, unblinking intensity.
Zara wasn't looking away. She was leaning forward, drinking in the sheer, staggering magnitude of the collapse.
