The penthouse held silence differently at night.
Not empty. Not peaceful.
Contained.
The city stretched beneath glass, its lights scattered and distant, like something trying too hard to remain relevant. Inside Cael Alexander's bedroom, everything was deliberate-- every surface exact, every shadow controlled.
Galathea Brooks leaned against the edge of the bed, watching him.
He moved with the same precision he carried everywhere-- jacket folded, cufflinks placed aside, sleeves adjusted just enough. Nothing wasted. Nothing careless.
"You're very disciplined," she said.
Cael didn't look at her, "That's one way to describe it."
"It's not a compliment," Galathea chuckled.
"I didn't take it as one," He smirked
A small smile tugged at her lips, "Of course you didn't."
He turned then, finally, his gaze settling on her-- steady, sharp, already reading more than she'd said.
"And what would you call it?" he asked.
Galathea pushed off the bed, taking a slow step toward him.
