The secluded office was cold and dark, illuminated only by a single, flickering bulb overhead barely illuminating the tension that crackled between Julie and Michael. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather and whiskey, a sharp contrast to the chaos of the gala outside.
Julie stood near the heavy wooden desk, her emerald gown shimmering faintly in the half-light. Her polished exterior had started to fray, the cracks evident in the tight clench of her jaw and the way her nails dug into her palms.
Michael leaned casually against the wall, the picture of smug defiance. His dark suit was immaculate, his tie slightly loosened as if to mock her rising fury. He held a tumbler of scotch in one hand, swirling the amber liquid lazily.
"You've got some nerve," Julie hissed, her voice low but laced with venom, her eyes burned with fury. "I've had enough of your games. After everything I've done for you. After everything we've built."