The morning light in the penthouse was usually serene, but today it felt like the glare of a spotlight. Ava was nursing her third cup of coffee when the intercom buzzed.
"Ms. Thorne," the concierge’s voice crackled, sounding uncharacteristically nervous. "A Mr. Silas Thorne is here to see you. He says it’s regarding the... 'estate of the deceased.'"
Ava’s grip on her mug tightened until her knuckles turned white. Silas. Her uncle. The man who had brokered her marriage to Damian like he was selling a piece of livestock, only to wash his hands of her the moment the "vessel" was no longer useful.
"Send him up," Ava said, her voice dropping an octave.
Damian appeared in the kitchen doorway, fully dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, looking as if he hadn't slept a wink on the guest room sofa.
