The sun had set by the time the Rolls Royce returned to the Sinclair Penthouse, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold.
Zoe had requested to be dropped off at her own apartment first. "I need to edit this footage before I pass out," she had said, clutching her camera bag like a newborn. "And honestly, your building's security guards look like they eat people. I'll take a rain check on dinner."
Aria rode the private elevator up alone. When the doors slid open, the penthouse was quiet. The lights were dimmed to a warm, amber glow that softened the sharp, modern edges of the furniture. The smell of truffle and roasted garlic hung in the air, rich and inviting.
Damien was waiting for her.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city lights. He had discarded his jacket and tie, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. He held a glass of dark red wine in one hand, the crystal catching the light.
