I don't remember driving home. The car moved, yes, but I don't remember driving it. My hands gripped the wheels, my feet operated the pedals, but something essential, something free drove me.
When I got to the penthouse, I stood in the doorway too long, a stranger. The silence was suffocating. Even the air was accusatory, clinging to me like it knew what had been done. What I'd let happen.
I closed the door behind me with a slam and leaned against it, breathing heavily. I should have shrieked thrown something. But I walked, wooden and stiff, into the lounge.
My eyes landed on the shelf.
Sitting on it was a frame.
A photo we took in Florence, six months ago. Serena had dragged me out of a finance conference, made me follow her through alleys filled with sunlight and bad graffiti. We'd
