Chapter 5

The penthouse felt different when I returned from the gallery three days later. Not visibly—the marble floors still gleamed, the abstract paintings still hung in their precise positions—but something in the air had shifted, like the moment before a storm when the pressure drops and your skin prickles with electricity.

I set my portfolio by the door, keys jingling softly as I placed them in the crystal bowl. The sound echoed strangely in the foyer, swallowed by a silence that felt too thick, too expectant. Vincent's car had been in the garage when I'd arrived, but the house felt empty…