Frederico Grey Volkov
The penthouse was silent when I returned — exactly how I preferred it. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering city below, cold and distant, much like the man who owned it. I poured myself a glass of aged whiskey, lit a cigarette, and stood by the glass wall, letting the smoke curl lazily from my lips.
Order. Control. Distance.
These were the only things that had kept me sane for fifty-three years.
My condition was rare. Cruel. A neurological anomaly that made most human touch feel like acid on my skin. Burning. Suffocating. Unbearable. Over the years I had learned to endure brief, necessary contact — handshakes in boardrooms, the occasional calculated embrace — but intimacy? Real touch? That had been impossible.
Until her.
Liliana Miller.
The one wo
