And he won’t explain a bit of it?!
The elevator deposits us in the lobby, and Lukas’s hand finds the small of my back, steering me past the security guards whose jaws have collectively dropped to the marble floor. I’m still firing questions at him, but he deflects every single one.
His chauffeur is waiting beside a black Mercedes, engine already growling. He opens the back door for us without a word, and Lukas helps me inside before sliding in beside me.
We drive through Manhattan in silence. I watch familiar landmarks streak past my window and try to orient myself in a world that’s suddenly gone topsy-turvy.
When we finally stop, it’s not at the luxurious penthouse I’ve always imagined him living in. Instead, we’re in front of a stoic brownstone in Brooklyn, tucked away on a tree-line
