The city glimmered below them—streets veined with gold, glass towers catching the faint blush of dusk. From Nicholas’s penthouse balcony, the world looked almost calm, as if chaos existed only for other people.
Clara stood near the edge, her hair whipped gently by the wind. The night hummed around her—distant horns, the low murmur of the city that never seemed to sleep. Behind her, through the sliding doors, she could hear soft jazz playing from the sound system, a song that didn’t quite have a name.
Nicholas was inside, pouring wine into two glasses.
This had become their rhythm—quiet evenings after long days. No labels. No promises. Just silence, conversation, and the dangerous comfort that came with both.
When he handed her a glass, their fingers brushed. A spark—small, electric, to
