When Moira woke, the penthouse was too quiet.

Not empty. Not cold.

Quiet like the pause before a heartbeat thuds too fast. Like the city had paused its spin to watch her next move.

She lay in bed, beneath layers of black silk that still smelled like smoke from the day before. Her phone was silent. No notifications. No buzz. Just the hum of the humidifier, steady and unyielding.

She lay still, remembering the words she typed—her private declaration to millions—but the echo of them in ...