ARIA

The elevator ride to the 90th floor took exactly forty-five seconds. I knew because I used to count them.

I used to count them with excitement, my stomach fluttering as I rushed home to tell Mark about my day. Now, I counted them to keep my heart from exploding in my chest.

Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five.

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

I stepped into the private foyer of the penthouse. My penthouse.

The air smelled of lemon verbena and beeswax—the same cleaning products I had mandated three years ago. Nothing had changed.

I reached for the keypad on the wall to announce my arrival. My fingers hovered...