Clement sat on his favourite sofa—which he had adamantly refused to sell—with his head bent low over his thighs, his hands seeming to clamp him in place there, as though holding himself down.
He ignored his wife's shouts and threats that whizzed past his ears intermittently, sharp as thrown knives. He ignored Sabrina's cold, weaponized silence.
However, he could not ignore the dark stench of fear saturating the sitting room—the heavy, suffocating sense of doom, the chilling confirmation that Josephine's nightmare might be unfolding into reality.
And that would mean Gianna was up to something.
Or was this latest debacle merely a cruel joke of fate?
Was this public airing of his dirty linen the handiwork of an unseen enemy, or simply the curiosity of some opportunistic blogger?
It couldn't be his secretary. She had been the very first person he had called when Josephine had burst into his room at five a.m., screaming, crying, clawing at him like a woman unhinged.
