Grant

The penthouse was quiet, soft jazz humming from somewhere in the walls, the kind that didn’t demand attention. I padded into the living room barefoot, the marble cool under my feet, and found Aria on the balcony.

She stood there with a mug in her hand, steam curling up in the golden morning light. Hair loose, draped over her shoulders like a dark waterfall, legs bare beneath one of those silk robes she somehow made look royal.

She didn’t turn. Just sipped her drink and stared at ...