The car ride was silent.
Beth sat on one side of the backseat, her sunglasses hiding what little expression she still allowed herself. Kingsley sat on the other side, hands clasped, eyes locked on the skyline as they drove through Midtown. The silence was louder than shouting—louder than anything either of them had said the night before.
The elevator ride up to the penthouse was quick. Familiar. Sterile.
When the doors opened, Anna Rowe was already waiting. Pristine in a pearl sweater and silk trousers, she stepped forward and kissed her son on the cheek, then gave Beth a brief, cool embrace.
“You’re here. Good,” she said. “Your father’s in the drawing room.”
They followed her in.
Micheal Rowe sat in his usual chair, a cup of black coffee resting on the side table, The Wall Street Jo
