A black sedan pulled up to the private entrance of Damien’s Penthouse, Evelyn sat motionless in the backseat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. A single suitcase and one duffel bag rested beside her — everything she had packed from her childhood bedroom in Brooklyn.
Martin Kane opened the car door. “Welcome, Mrs. Blackwood. I’ll escort you upstairs.”
The title still made her stomach twist.
They rode a private elevator straight to the top. When the doors opened, Evelyn stepped into Damien Blackwood’s penthouse and felt the air leave her lungs.
The space was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the glittering Manhattan skyline at dusk. The décor was sleek and minimalist — dark wood floors, modern furniture in shades of charcoal and cream, and subtle ligh
