The silence in the car on the way back to the penthouse was a living thing, thick and suffocating. Julian’s hand rested on my knee, a point of searing, protective heat, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the leather of his own seat. He hadn’t said a word since my driver had seen us and hurried to open the door, his face a mask of professional discretion that couldn’t quite hide his alarm at the tension crackling between us.
I stared out at the blur of city lights, but I didn’t see them. I saw a ghost drive, a digital phantom holding my soul hostage. *Celestial*. It wasn’t just a collection; it was the culmination of everything I had ever learned, every tear I had shed, every triumph I had privately celebrated. It was the language I had invented to speak to the world, and Adrian
