Vanessa’s POV
The penthouse was too quiet.
It wasn’t the elegant, soothing quiet that people imagined when they saw glossy magazine spreads or interviews that showcased “Vanessa Hart’s impeccable taste.”
This quiet had weight. It hurt and burned her chest. She doesn't like it.
The clock on the far wall ticked softly. Somewhere, water dripped from a faucet that's faulty and hadn’t been fixed. Every sound in the place reminded her that she was alone.
She had woken up late, again, though the sleep had done nothing to soothe the ache in her body. The sunlight filtered through the tall windows, spilling over the marble floor and across the mess she made that the maids hadn't cleaned up, clothes were thrown over chairs, an empty glass on the table, a plate from last night she couldn’t brin
