Chapter 182

• The penthouse lay shrouded in quiet darkness, the vast space swallowing sound like a tomb, city lights twinkling mockingly beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Charlotte eased the door shut behind her, flipping the switch to bathe the room in soft amber glow. There stood Howard, a solitary silhouette against the glass, staring out at the sprawling skyline—back rigid, broad shoulders tense under his rumpled shirt, the grief of Grandpa's death etched into every line on him.
• She knew he was furious, the sting of her confrontation with Anastasia still burning between them. He wouldn't believe her accusations without ironclad proof, and until she unearthed it, she had to play it normal—steady the ship for a man already capsized by loss. Treading softly across the cool marble, she approached, heels whispering like a secret. He knew she was there; his posture didn't shift, but the faint clink of ice in his glass betrayed him—a tumbler of whiskey, half-drained, the sharp scent of alcohol lingering in the air, his edges softened just enough by intoxication to blur the rage.
• "Howard," she said slowly, her voice gentle as a breath, laced with a quiet plea.