The sirens were louder now. Red and blue lights pulsed against the marble walls of Sloane’s penthouse, staining the white furniture in streaks of guilt. She stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, one trembling hand resting against the glass. The city stretched out beneath her—bright, merciless, alive.
She’d spent her entire adult life chasing those lights.
And now they were coming for her.
She didn't get the chance to take her escape route like she had planned.
When the pounding began on her door, she didn’t flinch.
“Miss Monroe,” a voice called sharply. “This is the police. Open up.”
Her pulse jumped, but she stayed still. The wineglass in her hand felt absurd now—like a prop in a play that had long since ended.
“Miss Monroe!” Another knock, harder this time.
She set the glass dow
