The air at Rosewood Hotel was thick with the scent of expensive whiskey and polished wood.
And in one of the leather chairs, sat Richard Domango with one hand resting against his temple as he glared at his phone screen for the umpteenth time since he arrived at the restaurant.
He wasn't used to this. For years, people—CEOs, politicians, investors and the likes who sought his favor—had moved at his pace and at his command and none had dared to keep him waiting.
Yet, here he was, waiting for a woman who before now, didn't even deserve a first glance from him.
He exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away as he checked the time for the umpteenth time.
9:00 PM. And not even a text or a call that she would be late. What an irresponsible woman?
Finally at his wits end, he gulped down the remaining drink in his glass and was about to rise to his feet when a shadow hovered over his table.
