The storm outside had finally quieted. The rain had left streaks across the tall glass windows of Damian’s penthouse, and the scent of wet stone and smoke clung faintly in the air. The city below shimmered under the lamplight—muted, distant, unaware of the quiet unraveling taking place above it.
Elena stood in the middle of his study, still as a statue, her reflection caught in the polished floor. Damian had been gone for hours—no message, no explanation. He’d left after a cryptic phone call, the kind that drained the warmth from his eyes before he slipped into the night.
At first, she had waited. Then she wandered.
His world, so meticulously composed, always fascinated her—the leather-bound books, the glass decanter half-filled with amber whiskey, the scent of cedar and faint cologne t
