Elena’s P.O.V.
The silence in the penthouse was no longer charged with raw, suffocating passion it was heavy, suffocatingly thick, and reeking of blood.
The distorted dial tone from the call echoed through the vast lounge like a dying heartbeat before cutting off into agonizing static. My knees buckled under the sudden, crushing weight of reality. I reached out blindly, my trembling fingers gripping the sharp, polished edge of Damian’s dark oak desk to keep from collapsing onto the cold marble floor.
"My father..." I whispered, the words choking in my throat, sounding frail and broken against the vastness of the room. "He's... he's gone."
"He is breathing, Elena," Damian said instantly.
His voice wasn't laced with panic or uncertainty. It was terrifyingly calm—a quiet, lethal stillnes
