The silence in the Harrington penthouse felt heavier than any argument Elara and Lucas had ever had.
It wasn't the comfortable, negotiated quiet they'd learned to share—the kind where distance was a truce. This silence was sharp. Alert. Like the seconds before glass shattered.
Elara stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, arms wrapped around herself, watching the city glow beneath her. From this height, everything looked orderly. Predictable. Nothing like the chaos twisting inside her chest.
Behind her, Lucas loosened his tie for the third time and then stopped, jaw tightening as if he'd realized the gesture betrayed too much. He hadn't said a word since they'd returned from the gala, but his presence filled the room like a storm that refused to break.
"You're angry," Elara said quietly.
Lucas laughed once, humorless. "That's one way to describe it."
