(Jane’s POV)One week.Seven days since Powell’s voice had dropped to that low, guarded tone in my office, he spoke of Julia as though she were a problem he needed to manage.Seven days since the anonymous caller had dangled Victor Boaz in front of me like bait on a hook. Five days since I had packed the last of my things from Andrew’s penthouse and told him, firmly but calmly—that I needed space that belonged only to me.The new apartment was exactly what I had asked for: sleek, minimalist, twenty-second floor of a discreet Midtown tower with large extensive windows that framed the glittering city like a painting I could close the curtains on.Grey marble counters, soft gray walls, a single abstract painting above the fireplace that reminded me of chaos at dusk.No music playing in the background. No Nathan’s cologne lingering in the closets nor Andrew’s quiet presence in the next room, offering protection wrapped in something that was beginning to feel dangerously close to real.I
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