Morning in New York never felt this clean.
The press had moved from scandal to redemption, from whispered gossip to open awe. Alina Thorne was no longer a name—they called her a phoenix. The woman who burned and bloomed in the same breath.
Nicholas’s apartment had become a fortress of silence, where their war had ended in sweat and silk. But even in the peace, something tugged at Alina’s spine.
Something… watching.
“Do you feel it?” she asked, pouring herself a black coffee as Nicholas came up behind her shirtless, towel slung low.
He kissed her shoulder. “Feel what?”
She didn’t answer.
Because she couldn’t explain it.
A chill under the skin. A breath not her own.
The first note arrived at noon.
Unmarked envelope. Gold wax seal. Inside, a single card:
Congratulations, Miss Thorn
