She Writes Her Own Heartbeat
"We need air."
Outside, the night was cool, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat inside. City sounds were muted here, high above the streets. Distant traffic, the faint wail of a siren. The terrace was empty, lit only by the ambient glow from the gala and the city lights below. Shaw and Vance materialized near the doors, giving us space but maintaining watchful positions.
Benjamin leaned against the cold stone balustrade, running a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect style. He looked suddenly weary beneath the polished surface, the strain of the performance showing. "God, I hate these things."
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