chapter 8

The morning light came in like an accusation, flat and clean across the penthouse kitchen island. Nicole wrapped a pale scarf around her hair and moved through the room with the steady rhythm of someone who had practiced calm until it became muscle memory.

Julian liked his lunch like an order in a ritual: proper salad, protein carefully measured, thin slices of artisan bread. She prepared it the way she always had—nothing showy, only exactness. She sealed the container and ...