Elena's eyes swept over Damien, taking in every detail of his changed appearance. Her gaze lingered on the wheelchair, a flicker of something—surprise? pity? amusement?—crossing her face before she schooled her features into a mask of polite interest.
"My, my," she drawled, her voice a honeyed poison. "How the mighty have fallen. Tell me, Damien, is this a new fashion statement? Or perhaps a desperate bid for sympathy?"
Damien's jaw tightened, but his voice remained level when he spoke. "Elena. Still hiding behind false smiles and cheap perfume, I see. Some things never change."
Elena's laugh was like crystal shattering. "Oh, darling. Nothing about me is cheap, as you well know." She moved closer, her movements fluid and predatory. "But you... you've certainly seen better days. What happened? Did someone finally clip the great Damien Durello's wings?"
