The morning sun struggled to break through the thick, ash-colored clouds that hung over Manhattan like a warning. From the 52nd floor of her high-rise, the city looked frozen in time—skyscrapers bleeding into fog, cabs honking far below like distant thunder. But inside Emma’s penthouse, the storm had already begun.

She sat at the edge of her bed, her silk robe slipping slightly off one shoulder, hair unbrushed, eyes hollow from another sleepless night. The weight in her chest had grown ...