The cool evening air of the city didn't follow Styler Virjon into her apartment; instead, she was met with the heavy, cloying scent of expensive cedarwood tobacco—the signature scent of a man who didn't believe in boundaries.
Styler dropped her medical bag by the door, her shoulders aching from a twelve-hour shift at the Hospital. She had been looking forward to the silence of the apartment, a temporary quietness now that Elena and the kids were staying at the Armitage estate. She had planned to pour a glass of wine, call Elena to hear the kids' voices, and sleep.
Instead, she found her father, George Virjon, sitting in her velvet armchair, his cane resting against his knee like a scepter.
"You're late, Styler," George said, his voice a polished rasp. He didn't stand. He surveyed her with the clinical detachment of a man who viewed his daughter as a lagging investment.
