The following morning dawned in shades of gold and silence.

Carson’s penthouse was unusually still, save for the rhythmic hum of the city below. He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, watching the sunlight crawl across the skyline like a patient predator.

Behind him, Justina Juliet slept curled on the couch, his shirt draped loosely over her shoulders. It should have been peaceful. But peace, he knew, was temporary.

His phone buzzed on the marble table.

One message.

From his private ...