The morning after the scandal felt like waking in another life.

The city hadn't slept; neither had I. Damian's penthouse was half-dark, curtains drawn tight, the air heavy with silence and burnt coffee. My phone was a graveyard of missed calls and unread messages. 

The world had turned on us overnight.

I walked to the window, fingers brushing the cold glass. Below, the street was crawling with reporters. They looked like insects, waiting for the kill.

Behind me, Damian's voice broke the ...