The fragile peace I'd fabricated with Riven lasted less than 48 hours. It shattered the moment he showed up, unannounced and uninvited, at my apartment door. His face was a thundercloud, his eyes blazing with a hurt that had curdled into pure, undiluted rage. In his hand, he clutched his phone, the screen glowing ominously.
He didn't say a word. He just shoved the phone into my hands. My blood ran cold. On the screen was a photograph, grainy but unmistakable. It was me, captured from a distance, stepping out of the private elevator bank in the lobby of the Blackwood Tower. The timestamp was from two days ago.
"Care to explain," he seethed, his voice dangerously low, "what 'personal family stuff' requires a visit to my father's private penthouse?"
The floor felt like it dropped out from under me. All the air left my lungs in a whoosh. The lies I had so carefully constructed crumbled into dust.
"Riven, I… it's not what you think," I stammered, my voice a pathetic whisper.
