The Wellington penthouse didn’t just feel like a sanctuary; it felt like a birthright. Violet Bento stood in the center of the vast, silent living room, the city’s glittering skyline a panoramic prize behind the floor-to-ceiling glass. The profound, absolute silence in her ears was no longer a disability, but a weapon. It was a wall behind which she could think, plot, and become who she needed to be.

It doesn’t matter, she thought, a slow, cool smile touching her lips. There’s still a ...