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The city outside Elena’s window was cloaked in a bruised violet haze, the skyline jagged against the fading dusk. From her suite in the Russo mansion—sprawling, cold, and carved from shadows—she watched as the city lights flickered to life, one by one, like wary confessions in the dark. Her fingers clenched the windowsill, white-knuckled. Her nails, usually manicured to perfection, were bitten down. The mark of too many nights like this one—nights steeped in silence, in secrets, in the unbearable weight of choice. Behind her, the bedroom was immaculate. Too clean. Too still. The kind of sterile luxury that screamed of control, and demanded silence. Elena didn’t move. Couldn’t. The report lay open on the bed, pages rustling slightly from the draft slipping beneath the door. It had arrive
- Writer
