The sunlight was a liar. It streamed through the penthouse windows, gilding the sleek lines of the furniture, painting the world in a false, optimistic gold. Elara woke to its warmth on her face and for one heartbeat, one merciful, empty heartbeat, there was peace.
Then her phone erupted.
It wasn't a ring. It was a continuous, vibrating seizure on the nightstand, a cascade of notifications lighting up the screen like a frantic, dying star. Texts, emails, social media alerts—dozens, then hundreds. The landline in the living room began to shrill, a sound so archaic and insistent it sliced through the fog of sleep.
Her heart didn't sink; it simply vanished, leaving a cavity of pure, cold dread.
Lucas's side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool. The silence from him was louder than all the noise.
