The clone didn’t speak again that night.
But she didn’t leave either.
She sat cross-legged on the floor of the penthouse’s viewing gallery, staring out at the city skyline—nude, calm, and unsettlingly present.
Alina watched her from the shadows, wearing Nicholas’s shirt, body still flushed from their second round on the marble kitchen counter. Her thighs ached. Her lips were bruised. Her mind was wired.
“She’s a ticking bomb,” Nicholas muttered beside her.
“She’s an echo,” Alina corrected. “But echoes can turn into screams if ignored long enough.”
He handed her a glass of water, brushing her knuckles with his thumb. His possessiveness clung to her like heat. But his eyes—sharp, guarded—were fixed on the girl beyond the glass.
“She doesn’t feel like an experiment anymore.”
“She’s no
