ARIA

New York City looked the same as ever. I used to come here for business trips and conferences.

The wind whipping down the Fifth avenue was biting, cutting through my silk coat. The traffic was a deafening roar, drowning out my thoughts. The city moved with the same rhythm it always had, completely indifferent to the fact that Elara Vance—the woman whose family name was painted on half the trucks driving by—had been erased from the earth three years ago.

I stood outside the gold revolving doors of the Pierre Hotel, where Mark was hosting the gala, clutching my phone like it was the only thing keeping me upright....