CALVIN – Monday, 11:45 PM
The city outside Calvin's penthouse was nothing more than a tangle of moving shadows and fractured halos. The skyline shimmered with glass and concrete, but none of it felt alive. The hum of cars below, once soothing, now felt like distant chaos—just more noise. Calvin stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, scotch in hand, untouched. The ice had melted, watering down the drink, but he hadn't moved in over an hour.
Behind him, the flat-screen TV flickered on mute. A collage of headlines rotated in slow rhythm: "Audio Allegations Rock Divorce Case", "Calvin Williams: Threat or Victim?", "The War of Words Escalates." His name was everywhere. So was hers. Milly's face, frozen mid-expression—once adored, now dissected.
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch. He just stared.
The penthouse was dimly lit—just a low amber glow from a floor lamp in the corner and the silver-blue hue of the city lights bleeding through the glass. Everything else felt still. Dead.
