Third PersonThe penthouse was quiet again. It was not an empty kind of quiet, not the peaceful sort that came after a long day when the city finally softened. This was a hollow quiet, the kind that made space for thoughts Serena usually kept contained. The lights were dim, reduced to a warm glow. From the windows, Manhattan shimmered as it always did, alive and indifferent, but inside the apartment there was no movement, no laughter, no low murmur of conversation that might distract her.She sat in the guest room. Not in the master bedroom.That had been a decision she had examine lately. She found herself trying to know what got her Nathaniel with three years.A champagne flute rested loosely in her hand, the stem pressed between her fingers. She had poured it an hour ago and had not tasted it once. The bubbles had flattened, leaving the liquid dull, and started to warm.Her phone was propped against her thigh. The Vanderbilt launch clip played again.Lucius kneeling, theatrical
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