A Wicked Proposal

SERAPHINA

I adjusted my designer sunglasses as I pushed open the door to Brighton's Elite Tailors. The bell chimed delicately, announcing my arrival to the hushed, mahogany-paneled shop. The scent of expensive fabric and male pretension hung in the air.

A thin, balding man with a tape measure draped around his neck looked up from where he was pinning the hem of a suit. I recognized his client immediately.

Wesley Sterling, former Alpha of the Blackwood Pack, stood on a small platform surrounded by three mirrors. His shoulders tensed at my reflection.

"Ms. Sinclair," the tailor said with a practiced smile. "How may we assist you today?"

"I need a moment with Mr. Sterling," I replied, removing my glasses and tucking them into my Chanel handbag. "Privately."

The tailor glanced uncertainly between us.

"It's fine, Giles," Wesley said with a dismissive wave. "Take five."