James Sullivan waited inside the grand room like a king, seated comfortably in a high-backed leather armchair, his gaze fixed on the doorway with steely anticipation.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting shadows across the polished wooden floors, and the air was thick with the faint smell of leather and cigar smoke.
He'd envisioned this moment all afternoon—the sight of Ross being dragged in, broken and humbled. But as the door swung open, the reality was nothing like he had imagined.
A frown creased James's sharp, handsome features. There, at the forefront, was Ross, strolling in as if he owned the place. Behind him, more than half a dozen of James's own bodyguards filed in, looking more like Ross's entourage than captors.
