The private hospital wing was a fortress built from silence and money.
Glass walls.
Muted lights.
Polished marble floors so clean they reflected movement like water.
Tucked high above the Upper East Side, the Sterling-owned medical floor existed outside the normal world—a place where billionaires recovered quietly while the city below devoured itself through headlines and speculation.
Outside the hospital, New York was on fire.
Every screen in Times Square was replaying Julian's edited footage from the Astoria kitchen. Commentators debated whether Maya Sterling was a victim, a fraud, or a ghost wearing another woman's face. The city had become obsessed with the question Julian planted inside them:
Who is the real Maya Sterling?
Inside the corridor, however, the only sound was the low hum of fluorescent lights and the soft echo of approaching footsteps.
