For forty-eight hours after her discharge from Piedmont Atlanta Hospital, Maya’s world was strictly confined to the sun-drenched master bedroom of Mario’s Midtown loft.
The high-ceilinged room was completely silent, stripped of laptops, blue-line schematics, and buzzing smartphones. On Mario’s strict orders, Arthur Sterling had been forbidden from forwarding client updates, and the Emory Phase-Two site emails were being routed directly to Charles Laurent’s executive assistant.
Maya sat propped up against a mountain of plush linen pillows, wrapped in a soft cream cashmere robe that draped loosely around her shoulders. Her caramel-gold skin had regained its luminous, natural glow, and the dark shadows beneath her deep brown eyes had vanished into a soft, well-rested calm.
On the nightstan
