The interrogation room smelled of stale coffee and unwashed fear.
I sat on a metal chair bolted to the floor, my hands cuffed to the table. The cold steel bit into my wrists, a sharp contrast to the warmth of Cyprian’s touch that still lingered in my memory.
On the other side of the two-way mirror, I knew they were watching. Detective Miller stood across from me, sweating through his cheap suit. He looked nervous. He should be. Arresting the wife of Cyprian Hale was a career-ending move if the charges didn't stick.
"Comfortable, Mrs. Hale?" Miller asked, sliding a file folder across the scarred table.
"I've been in boardrooms with worse ventilation," I said, leaning back. I kept my posture perfect—spine straight, chin high. I wasn't an inmate; I was a CEO inconvenience. "Let's skip the
