Delacroix knew the moment he walked into Richard Carvil's office that he was already dead.
The room was dimly lit, just the way Richard liked it. Dark leather furniture. Marble floors that echoed every step. And Richard himself, seated behind an oak desk, swirling a glass of whiskey like a man who owned the world.
Which he did.
At least, for now.
He had called his wife and kids yesterday, and they're totally fine, unaware of the crisis. Aurora kept her promise, and now he can die in peace.
Delacroix adjusted his tie, masking the tremor in his hands as he stepped closer. His reflection stared back at him from the towering glass windows that overlooked the city. He looked... calm. Too calm for a man who had just sold his soul to Aurora Carvil, and now want to look into the eyes of his master.
Richard didn't look up when Delacroix got to him. He didn't feel the need.
