Adrian’s penthouse occupied the top two floors of a building that had once been a textile mill, and he had kept the bones: exposed brick, iron beams, wide-plank floors that gleamed like honey under recessed lighting. But the centerpiece of the master suite was the mirror. It covered an entire wall from floor to ceiling, its surface so flawless that the room it reflected seemed more real than the one Elena stood in.

She had been summoned here after dark, after the children were tucked into bed, after Marcus had retired to his separate wing with a glass of bourbon and a murmured excuse about early meetings. She had left the Beacon Hill mansion wearing a trench coat and nothing else, just as Adrian had instructed. The coat now lay in a puddle of camel hair on the floor, and she stood in the center of the room, bare, while he circled her like a collector appraising a new acquisition.