The clock on the kitchen wall didn’t make tick tock sounds, because It was a sleek digital clock that changed numbers in silent flashes. But I could still hear the countdown.
Every sixty seconds was another drop into a bucket I couldn’t empty.
By four in the afternoon, the Chicago winter sky had changed colors into deep purple and gray, casting long skeletal shadows across the penthouse. The space felt less like a luxury home and more like a high-altitude terrarium — all hard glass, polished marble, and expensive leather. Nothing soft. Nothing that hadn’t been bought to show power.
I am still standing at the kitchen island, staring at the silver skate-shaped bottle opener I had moved exactly two inches to the left this morning.
My chest felt tight. A dull ache throbbed behind my breast
