The front door of the luxurious penthouse in one of Manhattan’s most exclusive neighborhoods closed with a soft yet chilling thud. Aria stood stiffly in the middle of the living room, surrounded by black, gray, and glass. The simple white wedding dress, free of excessive ornamentation, still clung to her body. The rushed wedding held that morning in the hospital chapel, attended only by legal witnesses, Mr. Sterling, and Mrs. Sterling, who was still lying on an ICU gurney, felt like a nightmare that had happened far too quickly. There had been no reception, no joyful music, and certainly no congratulations from the groom. Lucas walked in first. He roughly removed his black suit jacket and tossed it onto the leather sofa before loosening his tie, his expression filled with obvious disgust. “There are two master bedrooms upstairs,” Lucas said without looking at Aria. His voice was flat and distant. “The room on the left is mine. You can use the one on the right. Never enter my room
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