Elira stood in the kitchen of the Blackwood penthouse, the scent of coffee curling into the air like an offering of peace. Across the marble island, Adriana sat propped up with a blanket around her shoulders, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted the mug to her lips.
“Is it always this quiet here?” Adriana asked, her voice still hoarse from days of sleep and silence.
“No,” Elira said gently. “But it’s been waiting for you.”
Adriana smiled faintly. “You talk like he does.”
“I’ve been around him long enough.”
They shared a look—soft, unfamiliar. It wasn’t easy, bridging the space between stranger and sister-in-law, between ghost and living memory.
Damian entered moments later, dressed in black slacks and a half-buttoned shirt, his hair still damp from a shower. The tension in the
