The silence in Adrian's penthouse had become a physical thing over the last two days—a thick, insulating layer between me and the world. I was curled in a leather armchair by the window, a book open but unread on my lap, just staring at the distant grid of city lights. My phone, sitting face-down on the glass side table, began to vibrate.
The sound was a physical shock, a jagged buzz against the quiet. I didn’t need to look. I knew.
My breath stopped. The air in my lungs turned to ice. My hand, resting on the book’s pages, didn’t move. I just watched the device skitter an inch across the polished surface with each pulse.
It stopped.
The silence rushed back in, louder than before. I counted five heartbeats, my own pulse a frantic drum in my ears.
It started again.
This time, I moved.
