Raphael’s POV
The penthouse felt too large at 3:17 a.m.
London glittered below the glass wall, rain-smeared roads, the Thames a black mirror catching tower lights. I stood with my back to the view, tumbler in hand, ice long gone. The whisky sat untouched on my tongue; it couldn’t burn away the loop in my head.
Liana.
I didn’t even know her last name until this afternoon.
One night. One reckless, perfect night in a Shoreditch bar that smelled of spilled gin and wet coats. She’d claimed the end stool like she owned the shadows, auburn hair escaping a bun, whiskey eyes scanning the room with the quiet wariness of someone who’d learned not to trust easy smiles.
I’d noticed her the second she walked in.
Not because she was beautiful, though she was, in that sharp, unpolished way that hit
