The storm had wept itself dry over the Atlantic by the time the first true light of dawn broke through the glass of the penthouse. It wasn't the harsh, blinding silver of the corporate high-rises, but a soft, amber glow that crept across the floorboards like spilt honey. The world below was still recovering from the seismic shock of the Shard's collapse, but up here, sixty stories above the pavement, the air was entirely still.
Maya woke up slowly.
For the first time in eighteen months, she didn't wake up with a gasp, her fingers clawing at the sheets as if trying to anchor herself against the memory of a timeline that had vanished. She didn't wake up counting the thirty days she had left to fix a broken fate.
She simply opened her eyes.
The sheets were tangled around her waist, cold.
