The city didn’t sleep anymore. Neither did Moira.

Not really.

The skyline blinked in warning lights and camera flashes, a kind of artificial lightning. Somewhere below, protestors clashed with reporters. Old money dined with corporate ghosts. Screens flickered with her name attached to phrases like 'deception', 'switch', and 'scandal-wife.'

It should’ve suffocated her.

But instead—it anchored her.

She lay on the chaise in the far corner of the living room, limbs sprawled, mind ...