The Divorced Gemologist Queen's Glorious Return

The interrogation room door swung open, slicing the dim light with a harsh, white rectangle.

Analia flinched, her eyes squeezing shut against the sudden brightness. For hours, the only sounds had been the buzz of the fluorescent light above and the frantic, useless replay of the last twenty-four hours in her head.

A silhouette filled the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, blocking the light. It was a shape she knew as well as her own heartbeat. A shape that once meant safety.

Now, it only radiated a cold that had nothing to do with the room's aggressive air-conditioning.

Alessandro Dorsey stepped inside.

He wore a black suit, so exquisitely tailored it seemed molded to his body. It was the kind of suit he wore to close billion-dollar deals or attend funerals. His face was carved from marble, his jaw tight, and his dark eyes held the flat, lifeless look of a frozen lake.

He gave a nearly imperceptible nod to the two detectives in the corner. They scrambled to their feet, gathering their files with a deference usually reserved for royalty.

"Mr. Dorsey," one of them muttered, avoiding his eyes.

They scurried out, closing the door with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot in the sudden silence.

They were alone.

Analia's throat was dry. She tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but the words were stuck, a knot of fear and confusion. "Alessandro..."

He didn't answer. He moved toward her, his expensive leather shoes making no sound on the linoleum floor. He stopped in front of the small metal table that separated them.

Then, he reached across, his hand closing around her wrist.

His touch wasn't just cold; it was void of any warmth, any memory of the thousands of times he had held her before. It was the grip of a stranger, impersonal and absolute. The strength in his fingers was a quiet, brutal promise.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

Without a word, he pulled her to her feet. The metal chair scraped loudly against the floor. He didn't look at her. He just started walking, towing her behind him like an inconvenient piece of luggage.

He dragged her through the sterile hallways of the police station, past officers who averted their gazes, past secretaries who stopped typing to stare. The humiliation was a physical heat crawling up her neck.

He pushed through the main doors into the damp New York night. A black Bentley was idling at the curb, its engine a low, predatory purr. A driver held the back door open.

Alessandro shoved her inside, his hand on the back of her neck, before sliding in beside her. The door shut, encasing them in a tomb of silent, suffocating luxury.

The car pulled smoothly into traffic.

Analia stared at his profile, at the hard line of his jaw illuminated by the passing streetlights. She opened her mouth to ask where they were going, but the chilling