By 5:00 PM, the executive floor of Ispire Inc. had become a ghost town of sleek glass and silent monitors. The frantic energy of the workday had bled away, replaced by the heavy, amber glow of a winter sunset that spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The light was beautiful, but it was a violent, bruising orange that seemed to set the city on fire.
Amara stood by the window in Darien's private office , her forehead pressed against the cool glass. Below her, the people of the city looked like ants, scurrying home to lives that were simple, predictable, and blissfully ignorant.
She was still wearing the "haze" from lunch. It was a cold, numbing sensation that made her feel as though she were made of glass, one wrong move, one sharp word, and she would simply shatter into a thousand jagged pieces.
