The penthouse was pitch black, silent except for the frantic, terrifying sound of my own ragged breathing.

It was past midnight. Julian hadn't come home. He hadn't texted. He hadn't called to ask why I had shown up at the office and vanished, or why I had missed the afternoon sync. I had spent the

"Ms. Vance, I cannot in good conscience authorize your discharge," Dr. Evans said, his voice echoing sharply in the sterile, curtained alcove of the ER. He held a thick plastic clipboard against his chest like a shield, his expression a mix of professional frustration and genuine alarm. "Your tropon

Julian Thorne pushed through the glass doors of the Thorne-Vance building, a massive iced coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. His head pounded with the dull, throbbing ache of a stress hangover. He had barely slept. Sloane’s apartment had been an absolute disaster—a burst pipe had flooded