The door to Tristan Vance's penthouse apartment clicked shut, sealing us inside a suffocating, heavy silence.
As I stepped further into the expansive foyer, I couldn't help but quietly observe my environment. The apartment was massive, dripping in the kind of high-end luxury that only old Manhattan wealth could buy.
But today, the air felt hollow, chilled by a profound, echoing emptiness. The furniture was immaculate, yet there was a distinct lack of life sweeping through the halls.
Tristan gestured vaguely toward the plush leather sofas in the living room. "Sit. I'll get you some water."
As he walked off toward the kitchen, I slowly moved closer to a massive mahogany console table against the wall. My eyes drifted to a row of silver family photo frames. I stared at them for a long moment—photos of a beautiful, smiling woman, and two young, laughing girls clutching Tristan's hands on a sun-drenched beach. They looked so happy. So safe.
