The rain began around midnight—slow at first, a whisper against the windows like breath fogging cold glass. Then it thickened into something heavier. Relentless. Like the sky had finally broken open and couldn't stop bleeding.
Sloane sat alone in the study, barefoot, elbows braced against the edge of his desk. The marble beneath his feet was cold, slick with condensation. He hadn't noticed the cold until now. Or the half-empty glass of whiskey sweating beside him, untouched for hours.
The penthouse was dark except for the soft blue-white glow of the monitor in front of him. His fingers hovered above the keys—trembling faintly, bone-white at the knuckles, the skin along his palms tense with suppressed adrenaline.
