Chapter 63 Rosalind's Last Stand
The scent of expensive perfume hit Silas before the soft knock even landed. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Rosalind.
The heavy oak door creaked open like a confession, and there she stood, draped in a blood-red silk blouse that clung to her hourglass figure, her raven hair curled into deliberate chaos, her lips a venomous crimson. Rosalind Fontaine, the socialite heiress with a jawline carved from ambition and eyes that always searched for a weakness to exploit. Her heels clicked over the polished marble as she strolled in like she still belonged there.
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