The chamber reeked of expensive perfume and barely concealed malice.
Gareth stood with his head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest. Sweat dripped from his temples, trailing down his jaw before splattering onto the polished marble floor. His hands trembled at his sides, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white.
Around him, servants moved with practiced efficiency. Trunks lined the walls, half-filled with silks and jewelry that probably cost more than Gareth would see in ten lifetimes. Maids folded dresses with careful precision, their movements sharp and quick, like they were afraid to linger too long in the room.
And at the center of it all, seated on a high-backed chair like some kind of queen, was Lady Elena Hartfield.
She was beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that made men stupid.
