Galathea Brooks did not slow when she returned to the penthouse.
The door closed behind her with quiet precision, sealing in the silence that had followed them from the rooftop. The fireplace responded instantly, flames rising in controlled elegance, light settling into its practiced warmth. The room remained obedient. Predictable.
She, however, did not.
She crossed the space, her movements deliberate, stripped of hesitation. The coat slipped from her shoulders first, his presence falling away with it, pooling at her feet before she stepped out of it without acknowledgment. She did not throw it aside. She did not linger over it.
She removed it like something no longer relevant.
Behind her, Cael Alexander entered. The door sealed. He said nothing.
He watched.
She could feel it without turning.
She moved to the closet, skimming through the wardrobe for something to wear outside, not hurried, not careless. Controlled. Efficient.
