The sleek, obsidian body of Damian's Rolls Royce Phantom sat like a silent predator at the curb of Soléne Couture. It was already 5:30 PM, The time when the city sky begins to bruise with deep purples and oranges, casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement.
Damian had made a silent executive decision that morning: he would be the one to drop her off and pick her up every single day. He told himself it was for her safety, but deep down, it was about the simple, primal need to be the first person she saw when her workday ended.
His dark gaze tightened as the glass revolving doors of the building began to spin rhythmically. Workers trooped out in waves—some in solo sprints toward the subway, others in laughing groups discussing happy hour plans. But his wife was yet to resurface. He had been idling there for the past thirty minutes, and the stagnant air of the car was beginning to grate on his nerves. Every minute she was out of his sight felt like an hour stolen from him.
