The Delaney penthouse was too quiet.
Not the gentle, restful kind of silence that invited peace or reflection.
No, this was the other kind—the oppressive, sterile stillness that seeped into the bones of the room and made everything feel hollow. Dead. Like the aftermath of a funeral no one had attended. Every inch of space gleamed with that curated, untouchable polish—the cold sheen of wealth without warmth. Surfaces too perfect. Air too still. A place that looked lived in only by ghosts.
Sloane sat alone in the corner of his office, half-consumed by shadows. The blinds were drawn at an angle that sliced the last rays of daylight into narrow lines across his face—like bars. Like a cage. The amber light cut through the dim room, casting long reflections over glass, leather, and the silent ache of things unsaid.
