The door clicked softly behind Marceline as she stepped into Cross’s room—a cavernous, modern space that echoed silently. The moment she was out of sight, her shoulders dropped, the tension in her body sagging like a puppet with cut strings.

She walked to the side of the bed and, with no grace or thought, dropped to the floor beside it. The plush rug did nothing to comfort her. It was all too cold. Too sterile. Like everything in this house.

With trembling hands, she slipped off her heels and set them aside, one after the other, the clicks of leather against marble sounding like the ticking of a slow, merciless...