Chapter 3 - The Empty SanctuaryThe door to the penthouse on the upper floors of the Moretti tower unlocked with a smooth, silent electronic click.
I pushed it open and stepped inside, the chill of the rainy night clinging to my damp clothes. The apartment was vast, minimalist, and entirely silent. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, though tonight all I could see were blurred streaks of neon bleeding through sheets of gray rain.
I walked straight to the bedroom, my wet heels clicking softly against the dark oak floor.
My life here had always been temporary, though I hadn't wanted to admit it. On the mahogany desk in the corner sat my leather-bound restoration tools, a bottle of archival glue, and a half-repaired nineteenth-century volume of poetry I had been working on for weeks. Next to it was a small stack of my clothes—simple cotton sweaters, denim jeans, and sensible flats.
I didn't pack the designer dresses Adrien had bought me. I left the silk evening gowns hanging in the walk-in closet like expensive ghosts, along with the diamond tennis bracelet he had given me for our six-month anniversary.
I pulled my old canvas duffel bag from the top shelf and began tossing my real life back into it.
It took me less than fifteen minutes.
When I zipped the bag closed, the apartment felt colder than ever. I looked around the pristine, sterile rooms where I had spent so many quiet evenings waiting for a man who believed his world could touch mine without burning it. I had thought his power was a shield protecting us from the outside. Tonight, I realized his power was the fire itself, and he expected me to stand quietly in the ashes while he negotiated with the men who supplied the fuel.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I picked it up. The screen lit up with twenty missed calls from Malcolm, twelve from Adrien’s private line, and a string of frantic text messages from his security detail.
“Elena, where are you? Answer your phone.”
“The boss is tearing the city apart. Tell me where you went.”
“Elena, please. Come back to the penthouse. We’ll fix this.”
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I didn't open the messages. I pressed Hold, navigated to the settings, and selected Block Number. Then I removed the SIM card entirely, dropped it onto the glass bedside table, and slid my phone into my pocket.
I grabbed my canvas duffel, walked out the front door, and locked it behind me for the very last time.
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