The piercing scream of a circular saw echoed through the cavernous, unfinished lobby of the new downtown arts center. Plaster dust hung thick in the sweltering afternoon air, coating Clara Vance’s hard hat in a fine, chalky film.

It had been exactly one month.

Thirty agonizing days since she had

The bright, blinding afterimage of the camera flash burned itself into Clara’s retinas. She threw her arm up over her face, stumbling backward until her spine hit the doorframe of the bathroom.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Clara screamed, her voice cracking with terror and disbelief. "How did y

"Going down, little bird?" Victor asked, his voice dark and heavy with a promise of ruin.

Clara stood frozen for a fraction of a second, the heavy brass doors of the penthouse elevator sliding shut behind her, sealing them into the intimate, mahogany-paneled space. The scent of him—cedar, bergamot,