Chapter Ninety-Six:
Blue Silk, Bitter Gin, and the Slow Alchemy of Aphrodisiacs
—
The door to the VIP suite glided open with the kind of luxurious hush that suggested bribery and blood had once stained its frame.
Inside, the suite was steeped in moody violet lighting and sinfully expensive upholstery. And at its center—like a cherry perched atop a very drunk sundae—sat Kathrine Sorella.
She had a crystal glass of Avantant gin and tonic clutched in one hand and the air of a noblewoman who fully intended to ruin someone's evening. Possibly mine. Hopefully Sophia's.
Until now, every time I'd encountered Kathrine, she'd been dressed in hard lines—political suits, military blazers, the kind of couture that shouted "I eat bureaucrats for breakfast and spit out tax audits by noon."
Today?
She was wearing sin.
