Three days had bled together, slipping past Eliana Bennett like sand refusing to stay in her grasp. Every sunrise seemed heavier than the one before, pressing on her chest with a weight she couldn't shake. She had tucked herself away in Henry Jackson's apartment—a sleek sanctuary in the middle of the city.
It wasn't the sprawling grandeur of the Vexley mansion, all polished marble and suffocating wealth, but it was something rarer. Safe. Human. Warm. The apartment itself was a contradiction: modest in size yet rich in detail. Clean lines, soft leather, books stacked with careless intention. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the restless city, headlights streaking like veins of light beneath her. At night, she'd stand there, palms against the cool glass, watching the streets below and wondering if anyone could see her watching back.
