Three days later

The Cross penthouse was a quiet glass fortress at dawn.

Soft grey light spilled across polished marble; the city below still yawned awake.

Damian was already dressed for work, dark suit, silver cuff links, every line of him precise. He stood at the espresso machine, reading market updates on his tablet, the faint hum of the machine the only sound.

Aria padded in wearing a loose silk robe the color of midnight. No makeup, hair in a lazy knot, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a dream and decided to own the morning.

“Good morning, husband,” she said, voice warm enough to be almost mocking....