Shattered glass glittered across the Italian marble floor. A broken perfume bottle had soaked into the rug. The vanity mirror was cracked, lipstick smeared across the wall in a violent red streak.

Y/n stood in the middle of it all. Her chest heaved. Mascara carved black rivers down her cheeks.

In her trembling hand, a crumpled photograph. The edges were worn, like it had been folded and unfolded many times.

The penthouse was silent except for her ragged breathing. Too silent. The kind of silence that filled the space between heartbeats, before everything shattered.

Outside, the Manhattan skyline glittered, indifferent.

Then—the unmistakable sound of the front door unlocking.

Heavy footsteps. Slow. Measured. The kind of footsteps that belonged to a man who never had to rush.

They stopped just outside the bedroom door.

A shadow fell across the cracked doorway.