The quiet hum of Maya’s loft at six o'clock on Saturday evening felt radically different than it had just a few days prior. The pristine marble counters and sharp geometric furniture were still there, but the sterile coldness that once defined her sanctuary had dissolved.
Maya stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the Midtown skyline, a glass of crisp Pinot Grigio resting in her hand. She wore a simple, silk slate-gray slip dress that draped loosely over her caramel-gold skin. Her dark brown eyes—usually calculating, guarded, and perpetually analyzing the room for structural flaws—were soft, reflecting the amber hues of the Atlanta sunset.
Behind her, the front door unlocked with a soft electronic beep.
Mario walked in, unannounced, using the key code she had
