The Devereux Motors showroom was a cathedral of glass and steel — silent, gleaming, and intimidatingly perfect.
Spotlights traced over the polished curves of luxury cars lined in flawless symmetry, their metallic bodies glinting like trophies under Alexander's rule.
The floor was black marble, so glossy it reflected every movement, every flicker of light — a mirror of power and precision. The air smelled faintly of new leather and money.
At the far end stood a massive glass wall overlooking the city, and in front of it, a single obsidian desk — Alexander's throne in his empire of chrome and control.
When Adrian followed him inside, the sound of their footsteps echoed across the vast hall, swallowed by the cold hum of wealth.
Everything about the place screamed dominance — every car, every inch of space, every calculated silence.
This wasn't a showroom. It was a statement — that Alexander Devereux didn't sell cars; he sold status, perfection, and control.
