The atmosphere in the penthouse was thick and stagnant, like air before a storm. Twenty-four hours had passed since the anniversary gala, twenty-four hours since Alexander’s hands had claimed me in front of every camera in the city, and twenty-four hours since I had offered him the flimsy lie about "desperate accounting" to explain Veronica's attack.

He hadn't mentioned the French debt or the gossip columnist since our terse exchange in the elevator. Instead, he had retreated behind a wall ...