The next morning was too quiet.

Even the city outside my penthouse windows seemed to whisper rather than shout.

The sunlight drifted lazily across my marble floors, licking the hem of my robe as I sat with a glass of cherry juice and an untouched breakfast.

Her legs were crossed, her hair pulled back in a low bun, she was makeup-free but radiantly shimmering. The kind of glow that doesn't come from sleep.

It was from the previous night.

Alexander McQueen's hands. His tongue. His greed.

I didn't