The elevator chimed—a soft, elegant sound that signaled the end of my safety. The doors slid open to the penthouse, a vast expanse of marble and glass that felt less like a home and more like a museum where the exhibits weren't allowed to touch the floor.
"Go to the bedroom, Sarah," he said, his tone shifting back to that cold, clipped command. "I need to make a phone call. I need to deal with Liam’s... lack of professional decorum."
I didn't wait for him to change his mind. I hurried down the hallway, the heels of my shoes clicking frantically against the stone.
Once inside our bedroom, I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't want to see the marks. I stumbled toward the bathroom and locked the door—a useless gesture, since he had the key, but it gave me a fleeting illusion of privacy.
I
