Author’s POV
Brittany sits alone in the half-dark apartment her father’s money once paid for, the silence pressing in like a living thing.
The designer furniture is still there, the marble counters, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, but the staff is gone, the credit cards are frozen, and the Nightforge name no longer opens doors for her.
She is a ghost in her own life, and the only thing keeping her warm is hate.
She pours herself another glass of the last bottle of thousand-dollar wine in the rack, downs half of it in one swallow, and lets the burn settle low in her belly.
On the coffee table, her phone lies open to the pack’s public page; photos from the wedding, all of them. Richard in black, smiling like he’s never smiled before. Emma in white, crown gleaming,
