The morning sun filtered through the curtains of Mike’s penthouse, casting gold shadows across the marble floor. Cynthia stood on the balcony, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes scanning the city skyline without really seeing it. The wind tugged at her silk robe, fluttering it around her bare legs, but she barely noticed. Her thoughts were scattered, tangled in everything that had happened over the past week—Collins’s unexpected kindness, Mike’s cold distance, and the tension crackling in the air like an approaching storm.
Mike had barely spoken to her since her coffee meeting with Collins. He hadn’t forbidden her from going—but his eyes, sharp and burning, had warned her enough. She could still hear his voice from last night, low and lethal.
“You think Collins has changed? He
