“I’m here for Damian Blackwood,” she said, her voice a near-whisper.
The hostess pointed a manicured finger down a dim hallway. “Last room on the right.”
The hallway was carpeted in a plush, blood-red runner that muffled her footsteps. As she neared the end, laughter spilled from behind the door. Damian’s friends. Preston Sharpe and Caleb Foster.
The door was ajar. She raised a hand to push it open, but Preston’s voice, loud and braying, stopped her cold.
