The silence in the penthouse had changed. It was not luxurious anymore; it was exposed. Lynda noticed it most on Sunday mornings, that one rare day when the city actually slowed down enough for her thoughts to catch up. Sunlight crept across the marble floor, touching furniture that had never been moved, art that had never been chosen by her, rooms that somehow still felt staged instead of truly lived in.

Marcus was around that morning, sitting at the dining table, laptop open, absorbed in ...