Sloane’s POV

Morning light streamed through the wide glass panels of my Belgravia penthouse, a pale golden wash slipping across polished marble floors. I should have felt triumphant, satisfied even, surrounded by luxury most women could only dream of velvet drapes, Italian sculptures, the faint fragrance of lilies delivered fresh at dawn. Yet beneath the flawless surface of my life lay a cavern of dissatisfaction that gnawed at me like a hungry beast.

I leaned back into the arm of my ...