The silence in the penthouse was unsettling.
It was past midnight, but Mike Richard hadn’t moved from the leather armchair in his study.
The decanter of whiskey sat half-empty on the side table, untouched for the past hour. The amber liquid shimmered under the dim lamp, but it held no appeal. He stared at the city lights spilling through the tall glass windows, his mind far away.
His jaw clenched as guilt settled in his chest like a stubborn ache.
Cynthia.
He had been trying to block her out for hours—burying himself in business reports, liquor, anything to shut out the sound of her broken silence. But no matter how many times he blinked, her image haunted him. The look she gave him when he turned away earlier—empty, exhausted, numb. The look of someone who had reached her limit. And
