The night air was cold enough to sting. Elena wrapped her coat tighter as she stepped out of the gallery, the faint echo of music fading behind her. The event had been dazzling—on the surface. Laughter, champagne, whispers of old money and new scandals. But beneath it all, there was that same unsettling emptiness she’d begun to recognize wherever Damian’s name was mentioned.
She hadn’t seen him all evening. Not since that phone call. Not since he disappeared without a word.
Her driver had texted that the car was delayed. A “mechanical issue,” he’d said. She didn’t believe it. So she decided to walk the few blocks to her apartment. The city was still alive at this hour—headlights slicing through the dark, heels clicking against wet pavement, the distant hum of life refusing to sleep.
But
