EMMA'S POV
The city never truly slept, but at four in the morning it exhaled.
Emma stood on the balcony of the penthouse, wrapped in a thin robe, the night air cool against her bare arms. Below, the streets glistened from an earlier rain, reflecting fractured constellations of light. Cars moved like slow, patient insects. Somewhere far beneath her, a siren wailed, then faded.
She had not slept.
Not because of fear—she had outgrown that—but because her mind refused to settle. Sterling Tower was no longer just a project. It had crossed a threshold. It had become leverage.
Behind her, the glass doors slid open.
Damian stepped out, already dressed, dark shirt crisp, posture precise. He carried two cups of coffee, handing one to her without a word. She accepted it, fingers brushing his, grounding.
"You're thinking too loudly," he said after a moment.
Emma huffed a quiet laugh. "Is that your professional assessment?"
"It's my personal one."
