Luna paced the penthouse like a caged animal, her bare feet silent against the marble. Every few minutes, she stopped at the window, staring out at the city lights like they might somehow reveal where Grace was. Her phone sat on the coffee table, silent. Mocking.
“She’s dead because of me,” Luna whispered for the hundredth time. “I should’ve left her alone.”
Grayson stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her unravel. He’d made coffee they wouldn’t drink, toast they wouldn’t touch. The normalcy felt obscene when Grace might be bleeding out somewhere in the city.
“Luna, you don’t know that she’s—”
“I heard the gunshot.” She spun on him, eyes blazing. “I heard it, Grayson. And then... nothing. Just silence.”
He approached slowly, like she might break or bolt. “Marcus said there was blood
