Seraphina didn’t sleep.
She lay on her side, staring at the faint glow of the city bleeding through the curtains, her thoughts refusing to slow. Every time she closed her eyes, Lucien’s voice returned—low, restrained, edged with something that felt dangerously close to honesty.
You’re standing on a fault line.
The words had followed her into the bedroom, settling into her chest like a warning she didn’t know how to obey.
By morning, she felt wrung out. Exposed.
She dressed slowly, choosing simplicity over elegance. A soft blouse. Tailored trousers. Clothes that reminded her she was still herself, not just a carefully dressed extension of Lucien Blackwood’s image.
When she stepped into the dining area, the penthouse was quiet.
Too quiet.
Lucien wasn’t there.
For reasons she didn’t
