The young lords of the Capital City elite watched us like we were circus animals. One of them let out a low whistle.
"Hey, Aiden—this one's dressed like a peasant, but the face isn't bad. Why not keep her for a drink?"
Finally, Aiden deigned to lift his head.
Those eyes—the ones that always seemed half-lidded, serene, almost merciful—were now cold enough to freeze blood.
His gaze landed on my face.
One second.
Just one second.
No panic. No guilt. Not even a flicker of the embarrassment a man should feel when caught red-handed.
Only pure, undisguised contempt.
"Disgusting."
The word slipped from his thin lips like something foul he needed to spit out.
Then he lowered his head again and pressed his mouth to that girl's lips. His hand slid beneath the hem of her blouse without a shred of shame.
"Get out. Don't make me say it a third time."
Glen looked ready to wet himself. He half-carried, half-dragged me out of the room.
The moment the door swung shut behind us, I heard her voice—sugary, simpering: "Mr. Stephens, you're so bad..."
The corridor was frigid. Cold air knifed down my collar.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out, numb, mechanical.