Chapter Sixteen
The soft glow of the city spilled into Adrian Blackwood's penthouse, painting long shadows across the marble floors and the carefully curated furnishings. Rain had stopped, leaving the streets below glistening under the streetlights, reflections flickering like promises. The penthouse, usually a place of controlled perfection, tonight held a rare warmth. Not from the fireplace, which crackled quietly, nor from the dimmed chandeliers—but from Elena Moore herself.
She stood near the balcony doors, hands lightly pressed against the cold glass, gazing at the city below. Her gala gown had been replaced with something softer—a simple cream-colored silk dress that flowed with her, unassuming yet impossibly elegant. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in loose waves, framing her face in a way that made her appear both vulnerable and powerful at once.
