The morning after the revelation felt like the air before a terminal impact. The penthouse, once a symbol of Alejandro’s unshakeable peak, now felt like a glass gallows. Sofia had not returned. Her bed remained perfectly made, a silent accusation of the void left by her departure. Alejandro stood in the center of his minimalist living room, his gaze fixed on the grey horizon of Lake Michigan. For the first time in his professional life, he had not dressed in his charcoal bespoke suit. He wore a simple black sweater, his hair slightly disordered—a man stripped of his corporate armor.
"Noah isn't answering his private line," Alejandro said, his voice devoid of its usual resonance. "He’s gone to ground. And he’s taken my daughter with him."
Emily stood by the marble island, nursing a cup of
