Chapter Twenty-Seven
The penthouse had never felt so large. Or so empty.
Adrian Blackwood stood in the living room, hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers, eyes tracing the familiar lines of the space. Every piece of furniture, every painting, every carefully curated object remained—but none of it mattered. The grand chandelier cast its dim glow over the marble floors, reflecting the emptiness that had settled into his chest.
Elena had been gone less than twenty-four hours, and already the silence was suffocating. The couch where she had sat reading late into the night was empty. The kitchen, where she had stubbornly tried to make breakfast despite his earlier outburst, smelled faintly of coffee and herbs—a memory that refused to fade, cruelly reminding him she was no longer here.
