The late-afternoon sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Jason Asher's penthouse, painting the marble floors in fractured streaks of gold and shadow. The apartment—usually a temple of elegance and control—felt heavy, like the air itself held its breath.
Sarai perched on the edge of the velvet couch, her back straight but trembling, her phone clenched in her manicured hand as though it were the only thing tethering her to reality. Hot tears slipped down her light brown cheeks, leaving faint, glimmering trails that caught the light like broken glass. Her jet-black hair, once sculpted into its usual sleek, high-fashion bun, now spilled over her shoulders in tangled waves—a silent confession that she was unraveling.
