The Hidden Cradle

The Vane penthouse was not a home; it was a vault of cold, polished surfaces and lethal silence. Elena set her single, battered suitcase on the white marble floor of the foyer, the click of the latches echoing like a gunshot. Julian stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, his silhouette etched against the sprawling, indifferent lights of the city—a man who owned the view and, she was beginning to realize, the woman now standing in his hallway.

“The security detail has your itinerary,” Julian said, his back to her. “You won'

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