A wave of nausea hit me so suddenly it felt physical, like the floor had tilted under my feet.
I scrambled out of bed, bare feet striking the cold marble, and moved fast—too fast—toward the living area, the sound of my own breath too loud in my ears. The penthouse felt unfamiliar now, like it had been subtly rearranged while I slept in it.
Reid was already there.
He wasn't dressed properly—just black silk pajama trousers, bare chest catching fragments of blue light from the monitors. He stood in front of the wall of screens in the study like he'd been rooted there all night. The glow of cascading data streams reflected in his silver eyes, turning him into something in-between human and system—like a ghost haunted by his own machine.
"Reid," I whispered, my voice cracking at the edges. "Tell me it's a glitch. Tell me the servers were hacked and the news cycle is just feeding on a phantom signal."
He didn't turn around.
That hesitation alone told me enough.
