Elira stood before the mirror, toothbrush in hand, her reflection misty with sleep and last night's mascara. The robe had slipped over one shoulder, her hair a halo of disarray. She was a stranger. Or perhaps she always was.She nudged the smudge under her eye, then left the brush in the sink.Last night still lingered on her skin—the stillness of unspoken truth in the kitchen, the almost-confession hidden between bites of cake and tension. And Clause 17, always humming in the recesses of her mind, a warning bell or a prayer.No emotional involvement.But her body recalled the warmth of his eyes, the shock of his silence, and the way the room felt too crowded when he left."Get a grip," she grumbled to herself, splashing water on her face.---8:30 AM – The Dining RoomThe penthouse remained as glass when she entered, only the distant clinking of a cup resonating from the breakfast bar. Caelan occupied his habitual position, dark hair still damp from a shower, reading something on his
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