The penthouse terrace was suspended in the indigo twilight of a New York summer. Fifty floors below, the city hummed—a constant, electric thrum of traffic and life—but up here, it was quiet.The only sound was the clinking of ice in a crystal glass.Aria sat at a small bistro table, the one they usually used for morning coffee. Tonight, it was set with a white tablecloth, two candles, and a bottle of wine that cost more than her first car.She watched Noah pour. His hand was steady. The tremor that had plagued him during the lawsuit, the vibration of stress that had lived in his bones for a year, was gone."To silence," Noah said, raising his glass."To boredom," Aria countered, clinking hers against his. "And to the fact that the only thing trending on Twitter today is a cat playing the piano."Noah laughed. It was a rich, deep sound."The news cycle moved on," he said. "Just like you said it would.""People get tired of outrage," Aria said. "Eventually, they just want to watch cats.
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