The door clicks behind us and the penthouse goes quiet in that expensive way, sound swallowed by money and marble. Low lamps pour honey over the foyer; the hall clock ticks like a vein. The scent of her perfume still lingers from the gala, smoke and silk layered over champagne and anger.
Amber cuts for the stairs without looking at me, silk whispering over her legs, chin high like she didn’t just turn my blood to rust in front of a room full of knives. The slit of her gown catches the light, revealing a flash of thigh before disappearing again, taunting in its rhythm. She walks like she’s still on stage, like she knows the whole world is watching, even when it’s just me.
“We’re not done,” I say.
“I am.”
Her tone slices through the still air, sharper than crystal. She doesn’t even pause
