The Park Avenue penthouse was cold and lifeless, the air stagnant with the bitter perfume of Victoria Davenport’s lingering tuberose scent and the hollow silence of abandonment. Adrian Cross stepped into the vast foyer, pushing the double doors shut behind him. He didn't turn on the lights. The grey afternoon light filtered through the rain-spotted floor-to-ceiling glass, casting long, solemn shadows across the polished Italian marble. He walked down the…
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