With the monsters locked away, we were left to face the damage they had done to us.
The silence in the penthouse was a living, breathing entity. It had settled over the marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows like a fine layer of dust, thick and suffocating. The press conference was over. The performance was done. We had stood as a united front, a perfect picture of resilience, of a couple forged in fire. But the moment the elevator doors had closed on the outside world, the facade had crumbled, leaving only the wreckage of us.
Lysander had retreated into a fortress of his own making, his back to me as he stared out at the city lights, a glass of amber whiskey hanging from his fingers like a verdict.
“A resounding success, according to Clara,” I said, my voice too loud in the quiet.
