Alexa Donovan sat cross-legged on the velvet chaise in her private suite at the Donovan estate, a chilled flute of something expensive sweating in her hand. The room smelled of lavender and power. Those were two of her favorite things.
The TV on the wall played the latest entertainment reel on mute.
But she wasn't just watching the headlines. She was studying them and she leaned forward with warped anticipation when the camera's footage became shaky as the rogue car swerved into people. She didn't know what she was expecting to see but she exhaled with a bit of disappointment when it wasn't a bigger deal.
It was probably just an overexcited driver or a drunk one who took the wrong turn.
The café confrontation had just aired on three celebrity gossip channels in the span of ten minutes. Evie Johnson's stunned expression as reporters swarmed her. The fumble. The whispers about the prenup.
