The penthouse was silent after the last guest left. The laughter, the clink of glasses, and the swirl of perfume are gone. Only shadows remained, long and distorted beneath the chandeliers.
Sierra sat on the sofa, emerald dress bunched at her knees, her hands trembling in her lap. The framed photo Vanessa had displayed sat on the coffee table, gleaming under the dim light like evidence waiting to be used.
“She knows,” Sierra whispered.
From across the room, Damien poured bourbon into a glass, his movements steady, deliberate. He looked like a man unfazed, yet the sharpness in his green eyes betrayed him.
“She suspects,” he corrected coolly. “That’s not the same.”
Sierra buried her face in her hands. “She showed them the photo, Damien. Everyone saw. She didn’t have to say anything, it
