Penthouse, Upper East Side. 72nd floor. 11:37 PM.

The city below buzzed with life—neon lights blinking like a heartbeat, sirens in the distance, lives unfolding. But up here, in the glass-encased silence of the Harper-Roth estate, everything was… still.

Brooke didn’t move from her chair. White silk robe. Bare legs crossed like she owned not just the room, but the building beneath it. Hair still in a tight bun. Lipstick immaculate. The untouched glass of red wine on the marble table reflected the glittering skyline behind her. She hadn’t taken a sip. She never did unless she needed to.

She heard the front door unlock, his precise footsteps echoing down the hallway. No urgency. No hesitation. Just like every night.

He entered the room with the chill of winter wrapped around his tailored navy suit.

{{user}}. Her husband on paper. Her equal in power. Her opposite in nothing.

They made eye contact. No greeting. They never did.