The rain had come and gone overnight, leaving the city washed clean, or at least pretending to be. Celeste sat curled on the broad windowsill of the penthouse, knees tucked up, her fingers wrapped around a mug that had long since gone cold.
Below her, Manhattan stretched gray and soft at the edges, the streets shimmering where the early sun caught rainwater pooled in potholes. If she leaned her head against the glass, she could almost pretend she was invisible up here, a woman in a glass tower, untouchable for a moment.
Damien’s voice drifted in from the study behind her, low and calm in that way he had when something needed fixing. He was on another call, this time about rights clearances for the upcoming documentary they’d agreed to, or maybe about the statement they’d drafted to shut
