The buzz of my phone was an intrusion from a world I had tried to leave behind. I ignored it, letting the sound bleed into the hum of the city outside Crosby's penthouse. But it was persistent. When I finally glanced at the screen, the name made my stomach clench: Riven.
Weeks had passed since our explosive confrontation. I had successfully buried the memory under a mountain of illicit pleasure and willful ignorance in Crosby's world. Seeing his name felt like disinterring a corpse.
A part of me, the part that still clung to a shred of decency, knew I owed him this. I couldn't just vanish. With a deep, steadying breath that did nothing to calm the frantic beat of my heart, I answered.
"Hello?"
A beat of heavy silence. Then, his voice, stripped of all its former warmth, flat and cold. "So you're alive."
"I'm alive, Riven."
