The private elevator opened into silence.
Not complete silence. The penthouse corridor always carried quiet mechanical sounds beneath the luxury-- the distant hum of climate control, the muted whisper of filtered air moving through hidden vents, the soft ticking of rain against glass somewhere deeper inside the apartment.
Still, after a full day inside Artemis Gallery, the stillness felt unnatural.
Galathea Brooks stepped out of the elevator with a tiredness that settled deep in her bones. Her heels clicked softly against black marble flooring as she rubbed one hand over the back of her neck.
Midnight had already passed.
The designer silk blouse clinging to her skin still smelled faintly like expensive detergent from Cael's penthouse laundry. The fitted skirt she wore belonged to the same emergency collection he had shoved at her that morning after he refused the idea of her returning to her apartment for fresh clothes.
At the time, she had been too exhausted to argue.
