I wake to voices in the hallway. Low, clipped. The kind used when something dangerous is close. I lie still for a moment, listening to the steady thrum of the penthouse alarms. They sound normal, yet the air feels tense.
When I open the bedroom door, Damian has the entire dining table covered in maps. Satellite photos with red circles. Printed reports. Tablets arranged in a strict line. Three members of his security team stand nearby, waiting for orders.
He looks like he has not blinked in hours.
No one notices me at first. I stand there barefoot in the oversized sweater I slept in. The faint smell of coffee lingers. Something has shifted since last night.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
Damian lifts his head. His eyes are colder than usual, but soften slightly when he sees me. He waves
