Camilla's POV ...
I was upstairs. Taking lunch.
The dining room table could seat twenty, but it was just me. The silence in the penthouse was a physical presence—heavy, watchful, suffocating. A single place setting of fine china and heavy silverware looked absurd in the expanse of polished mahogany. A waiter, silent and expressionless, had brought the plate, bowed, and retreated to stand by the wall.
It was lobster. Butter-poached lobster tail, the menu had said. It looked perfect. Steaming, glistening, arranged on a bed of saffron risotto with microscopic herb garnish.
It tasted like nothing.
No—that wasn't true. It tasted like rich, warm milk. Bland. Slick. Flavorless.
It was quite funny, really. Eating a three-hundred-dollar meal that tasted of nothing. My mind, the traitor, made a connection before I could stop it. The texture, the warmth… it reminded me of *his* release. The way it had filled my mouth that first time in his office, salty and bitter and utterly his.
