Kendella couldn't breathe in the Delacroix mansion.
Every shadow seemed to hold the silhouette of the man who had kissed her like she was the world, only to drop her like she was nothing.
By the next afternoon, she had reached her limit. Without a word to the security detail or a glance at Jae-Hyun's closed door, she took her keys and drove.
Her private penthouse was —a modest, minimalist glass box perched over the city, far from the museum-like opulence of the family estate.
It was a secret. Or so she thought.
The apartment was silent when she entered. She didn't turn on the lights. She didn't want to see her own reflection. She marched straight to the master suite, peeling off her clothes with trembling fingers, desperate to wash the last twenty-four hours off her skin.
