The Morning After the Storm

The silence of the early morning was broken only by the distant, rhythmic rumble of municipal snowplows clearing Fifth Avenue eighty-two floors below. Outside, the storm had dissipated into a cloudless winter sky of pale sapphire. The morning sun reflected off the crystalline snowbanks covering Central Park, filling the soaring glass penthouse with a blinding, diamond-like brilliance. On the cushions before the dying embers of the hearth, Genevieve had lain…