ZANE

I sat on the edge of the plush velvet sofa, nursing a cup of herbal tea I didn’t want, watching Mark from across the room.

He was standing by the window again. That was all he seemed to do these days. He would stand there for hours, staring down at the New York traffic, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders rigid. The silence in the penthouse was heavy enough to choke on.

I took a slow sip of the tea, letting the warm liquid coat my throat, but my eyes never left his back.

His mood swings were giving me whiplash. One minute, he was the...