The penthouse is warm. A fire crackles in the marble hearth, casting dancing shadows across the hardwood floors. A half-empty mug of tea sits on the coffee table, long gone cold. The television murmurs to itself—some late-night news program, the volume turned low.

The only light in the room besides the fire comes from the open study door. A lamp glows on a mahogany desk, illuminating scattered papers. A leather chair, still slightly warm.

There's a whisper of movement from the hallway. The barest creak of a floorboard.

There's a faint bruise blooming along his jawline, barely visible in the dim light.