The penthouse was too quiet.
Aurora Sage hated silence. It left room for thoughts, and thoughts led to weakness. After the chaos on set—screaming extras, plaster raining down from the bullet's impact, Sonya's accusations echoing across the ballroom—the hush of Logan Mason's glass-walled fortress pressed down on her like suffocation.
She had expected shouting when they returned. Maybe a lecture about how she had embarrassed him in front of the entire crew. Maybe demands for explanations, or furious questions about how an assassin had managed to get so close.
But Logan hadn't said a word.
He lounged on the leather sofa like a man untouchable, his shirt discarded, the top buttons of his trousers undone as though he had just stepped off a photoshoot instead of out of an attempted assassination. A crystal tumbler of whiskey gleamed amber in his hand.
His silence was deliberate. Dangerous.
