A wheelchair rolled in.
On the chair sat a Warren.
Not just any Warren.
Daniel f*****g Warren.
His legs rested lifelessly on the footplate, but everything else about him radiated control. His spine was straight, his shoulders squared, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes...cold as hell, dead calm, predator-still...swept the hall like he already owned every soul breathing inside it.
The man wheeling him wasn’t a nurse.
It was his right-hand man. The kind of man whose hands had probably buried bodies and slept like a baby afterward.
And beside Daniel...
Regina.
Walking.
Not clinging, hiding or shrinking.
She walked beside him like she belonged there.
Draped in quiet luxury.
No screaming logos. No desperate glitter. Just old-money elegance...clean lines, a deep wine-color
