The air in our Manhattan penthouse had grown thin and sharp, like the moments before a lightning strike. What was once our home, a sanctuary of plush carpets and panoramic views, had been reconfigured into a fortress, a command center for a war we were still trying to define. Security specialists, with their discreet earpieces and watchful eyes, moved through our halls with a quiet purpose that was more unsettling than any loud alarm. They were a constant, living reminder that the walls themselves might have betrayed us.
Sterling and I had fallen into a new, chilling rhythm—a strategic cold war waged in our own home. In front of the staff, the lawyers, and even Eleanor, we were two separate entities orbiting a shared crisis. He was the stoic CEO, his words clipped, his focus entirely on t
