Conversation with the devil

The morning after the gala was unnervingly quiet. No messages from Seraphina. No sudden power plays. Just the slow hum of London waking up beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of Isabella's penthouse, a city oblivious to the threat hanging over two of its occupants.

Liam stood by the coffee machine, watching the espresso drip into a sleek black cup, his mind tangled in last night's conversation.

'Tomorrow. Noon. The old tea shop on Crawford Street.'

Seraphina had set the game in motion, and he had no choice but to play. He checked his watch—nine hours of normalcy left. Nine hours before everything might change.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from an unknown number: 'Looking forward to our chat, Mr. Campbell.'

Liam deleted it immediately, jaw tightening. She was toying with him, making sure he knew she could reach him anywhere, anytime.