The penthouse was quiet in such a way that it no longer felt empty, and that realisation unsettled Seraphina more than she expected.
Three weeks ago, the silence inside the apartment had felt controlled. Strategic. Necessary. She had preferred it that way because silence allowed her to think clearly and anticipate movement before it happened; now, stillness carried presence.
Lucien's presence.
Even when he was not standing directly beside her, she knew where he was instinctively. She knew the rhythm of his footsteps across the hallway. She knew the low tone of his voice during late-night calls. She knew when he was working and when he was simply sitting in stillness, thinking.
Somehow, without her noticing when it began, awareness had become comfort, and comfort had become dangerous.
