Lilith Luna Dusk
The penthouse is quiet — too quiet. The kind of silence that feels intentional, like the house itself is holding its breath.
The moment I step inside, I feel it. The air carries the faintest trace of cotton candy shampoo, sugar-laced cereal, and warm vanilla. Lily. Her scent clings to the velvet drapes, the marble banisters, the space between each breath.
I haven't been home in two days.
Not since the post press conference.
Not since Damon.
I toe off my stilettos, ignoring the sting in my arches. The foyer stretches out before me — polished obsidian floors reflecting the soft glow of chandeliers, abstract sculptures looming like sentinels. I pass through it in silence, each step echoing the guilt I try to ignore.
When I reach the grand staircase, I see her.
Lily.
