Page 15 of His Verdict
Sapphire Heights, Penthouse One.
It’s not an office. It’s a residence. One of the most exclusive, expensive addresses in the city.
His address.
I stare at the card, my rage and despair and obsession coalescing into a single, sharp point. It wasn’t an invitation. It feels like a summons.
My choices have been stripped away. My career is gone. My future is a blank page. All I have left is this address.
My decision is made.
I’m not going there to accept a job.
I’m going there for answers. And as I stand there in the ruins of my life, I realize with a sickening lurch of my stomach that this is exactly what he wanted all along.
Chapter 7
The city is a smear of bleeding neon through the rain-streaked window of the cab. Each drop that slides down the glass feels like a tear for the life I’ve lost. The card is a rectangle of ice in my clammy hand, the address a brand seared into my retinas.Sapphire Heights, Penthouse One.
Rage is a living thing inside me. It’s a toxic, high-octane fuel that has burned away the despair, leaving a clean, sharp, homicidal edge. For four days, I have been a ghost in my own apartment, marinating in my ruin. But the time for mourning is over. Now is the time for reckoning.
Sapphire Heights is a sleek, black stiletto of glass and steel piercing the low-hanging clouds. It looks down on the rest of the city with cold, glittering contempt.
My coat is damp, my clothing is wrinkled, and I probably look like I’ve been sleeping in a bus station. I don’t care. Let him see what he’s made of me. I barely had the wherewithal to shower before leaving.
The doorman, a man who looks like he could snap a person in half without wrinkling his pristine uniform, steps forward as I approach the monolithic glass doors.
“May I help you, miss?” His voice is polite, but his eyes are cataloging my dishevelment.
“I’m here to see Jasper Wolfe,” I say, my voice tight.
I expect to be stopped, questioned, told to use a service entrance. I expect to have to fight my way in. Instead, the doorman’s expression smoothes into one of practiced neutrality.
“Of course. Mr. Wolfe is expecting you.” He gestures toward a private elevator. “Penthouse One.”
He’s expecting me.
The rage, which had been a steady burn, flares into a white-hot inferno. The absolute, unmitigated arrogance. He orchestrates my professional execution, sends me a contract for my soul, and then simply waits for me to show up at his door, as if my arrival is a foregone conclusion.
The elevator is a silent, mirrored box, ascending seventy floors in a stomach-lurching whisper of speed. My own reflection mocks me from all sides—a wild-eyed, furious woman who looks nothing like the composed lawyer I once was. Good. Let the animal out of the cage.
The doors open directly into a private foyer. There is only one door. Before I can even think to knock, it swings inward.
And there he is.
He’s not in a suit. He’s barefoot, wearing a pair of soft, gray trousers and a simple black long-sleeved shirt that hugs the lean, powerful muscles of his torso. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t frowning. He’s just… watching me. A predator in his lair, observing the prey that has willingly walked into his den.
He steps back, a silent invitation, holding the door open. I stalk past him, the suppressed violence of my stride making the air crackle. My senses are immediately overwhelmed. The scentof him—cedarwood, clean cotton, and spice—and the sheer, breathtaking scale of the space.
The penthouse is a cathedral of glass. Two entire walls are floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing a panoramic, god-like view of the city skyline. The lights glitter below like a carpet of fallen stars. Polished floors, minimalist furniture that collectively costs more than my education, a fireplace crackling with real wood.
The door clicks shut behind me. A heavy, final sound. The lock engages with a soft, electronicthump.
The sound snaps me to attention.
I spin on him, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “You son of a bitch.”
He doesn't flinch. He just leans back against the closed door, crossing his arms over his chest, his gray eyes unreadable. “A bit cliché, Olivia, but I appreciate the sentiment.”