The sharp clack of my stilettos against the polished marble floor of the Torres International lobby sounded like a countdown.
After days of being wrapped in the silk fortress of William's penthouse, stepping back into the towering glass-and-steel monolith felt like plunging into freezing water.
The morning rush was in full swing.
Sleek, sharp-suited executives hurried past, security guards stood at rigid attention, and the low, collective hum of corporate Manhattan filled the air.
As I walked toward the turnstiles, a sudden, violent flash of anxiety clawed at my throat.
For a split second, the bright lobby lights blurred, replaced by the chaotic flashing of red-carpet cameras and the deafening, echoing bang of a gunshot. My fingers tightened convulsively around the strap of my designer bag, my breath hitching.
Breathe, I commanded myself, forcing my posture to straighten.
You are safe.
He is safe.
