The storm arrived before noon, sweeping in from the river like an angry beast. From the penthouse windows, I watched the city blur beneath sheets of rain, the skyline swallowed by dark clouds. Thunder rattled the glass, a deep, guttural sound that made the walls seem thinner.
I pressed my palm against the cool pane, listening to the howl of the wind. New York didn’t stop for much, but even I could tell the city had slowed. Cabs crawled like beetles on slick streets, headlights smeared in the downpour.
The storm suited the mood inside the penthouse—tense, closed in, nowhere to run.
Nate had been in his study most of the morning, doors shut. I’d paced between rooms, restless, pretending to read, staring too long at Amelia’s ghost that seemed to linger in every polished surface.
When the
