The Moretti penthouse was never quiet.
It breathed.
At night, the glass walls hummed with the heartbeat of the city far below, lights flickering like embers, traffic murmuring like a restless tide, the distant thrum of helicopters slicing through clouds. But inside Dante's home, the silence tonight felt heavier. Denser. Almost sentient.
As though the walls themselves were waiting.
Watching.
Judging.
Aria felt it in her bones the moment she stepped into the private mezzanine Dante had given her to paint in. There were no windows here. No doors besides the one she'd entered through. Just concrete, steel beams, soft lighting, and the faint scent of pine, Dante's cologne clinging to the air as if he lingered even when he wasn't present.
This sanctuary had become hers out of necessity.
