“Is that… off-the-rack polyester I smell, or did someone simply forget to ventilate the foyer?”

I didn’t even have my coffee yet when the front doors of the mansion swung open, letting in a gust of cold morning air and the unmistakable, expensive scent of Sandro Aldridge’s cologne. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my apartment building, and standing next to him was a tall, skeletal man with silver hair and a measuring tape draped over his neck like a noose.

“Good morning to you too, Vivian,” Sandro smirked, his eyes scanning my silk robe with a predatory glint. “You look… rested. I brought...