- SERAPHINE
The apartment smelled like industrial cleaner and cold air. It was a white-box studio on the edge of the city, minimalist and sharp, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a skyline that no longer belonged to me.
Declan tossed a set of keys onto the stainless-steel kitchen island. They made a lonely, metallic clink that echoed off the bare walls.
"Home sweet home," he said, watching me. "For now."
I walked deeper into the room, my feet feeling strange on the polished concrete. At the Wynther mansion, the floors were always covered in hand-woven Persian rugs that muffled every step. Here, I sounded like I was marching.
I reached for the wall near the door, my hand automatically searching for the touch-screen panel that controlled the lighting and temperature at
