The silence from Damien Sinclair was starting to feel like a scream.
Veronica Hale sat perched in the corner of her glass-walled penthouse, her third espresso untouched, her phone vibrating every few minutes with updates, none of them satisfying. The city glittered beneath her, sprawling and indifferent, but her world was rapidly shrinking. Days ago, she'd commanded the narrative with a smirk. Now, her inner circle had gone quiet. One of her producers had "resigned for health reasons." Her stylist took a sudden “hiatus.” Even her attorney had started dodging her calls.
She turned her gaze toward the television that was muted, but playing the latest entertainment segment with looping footage of Celeste Laurent looking poised at a charity gala the night before.
Veronica’s teeth clenched.
