The soft chime of the doorbell was a distant star in the quiet universe of the penthouse. In my arms, Isabella stirred, her eyes fluttering open. "Mm? What—?"
"Shh," I murmured, my voice a low rumble against her hair. I pressed the remote clipped to the bedside, and a soft click echoed through the hidden speakers as the lock disengaged. "Sleep. I'll get it."
I slipped free from the warm tangle of her limbs, the cool air of the hall a welcome shock. I moved in silence, a ghost in my own home. ARIA's voice whispered in my quantum earbud, a cool, detached stream of data:
"It's Maya Rodriguez and two Concierge staff entering Penthouse 5101. Arrival complete.]
I didn't need the cameras. I could feel the shift in the air's pressure, the cautious weight of new footsteps, the low murmur of professional courtesy as the staff guided trolleys carrying her life inside.
I leaned against the wall just beyond the living room's curve, shrouded in shadow, watching.
