Lydia Pov
The gala ends in a roar of fake applause that makes my teeth ache.
By the time we stepped into the elevator, cameras followed us all night. Whispers followed louder. Marcus left early. Selene did not.
Adrian says nothing as the doors close. Neither do I.
The ride to the penthouse is silent except for the faint hum of steel cables pulling us upward. The city stretches beneath us in fractured light. From the outside, it must look like we won tonight.
Inside the apartment, the silence deepens.
I walk straight past the living room and into the master bathroom.
Marble. Glass. Chrome. Everything precise. Everything reflects too much.
I sit on the edge of the tub, the cold marble biting through my silk slip, and stare at the small white stick gripped between my trembling finger
