IMOGEN'S POV
The rough grip on my arms loosened just before they shoved me into a chair. My head spun as the bag covering my face was yanked off, the sudden brightness stinging my eyes. The air smelled like whiskey and cigar smoke, thick and suffocating.
I barely had time to take in my surroundings before I saw him.
Valentine Sutton.
He sat calmly, cleaning his glasses like this was just another business meeting. His suit was pressed perfectly, not a hair out of place. He looked up, sliding the glasses back onto his face, and smiled.
"We finally meet, spitfire bitch."
I let out a soft chuckle, my throat raw from the struggle. My wrists ached from the binds they had just undone, but I didn't move. I didn't need to. Not yet.
A table sat between us, and on it, a neatly stacked document lay waiting. A pen had been placed right on top, like some kind of polished threat.
Valentine leaned back, gesturing lazily at the papers.
"You know what to do. That's why your hands are free."
