Delacroix didn't move for a long time after Aurora left.
His fingers were still curled around the folder she'd given him. His knuckles had also turned white with pressure. He could feel the weight of it.
The folder suddenly felt heavier than it should have been, like it carried the full force of his downfall inside.
His throat was dry. He reached for his whiskey, but when he brought it to his lips, his hand shook so badly that the liquid sloshed against the rim of the glass. He set the glass down before he embarrassed himself further.
Aurora had him. He knew it. And what made it worse was that she knew it, too. He was now at her mercy.
He had spent his entire life playing both sides.
Delacroix had always navigated the underbelly of power, and shook hands with the devils while smiling in the presence of kings. He had always been careful, always one step ahead.
Unfortunately, not anymore. Now, he was trapped between two fires—Richard and Aurora.
