The air in the penthouse was thick with the scent of rain and expensive whiskey. Elena Voss stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the city lights blur through the storm, her reflection staring back like a stranger. At thirty-two, she had everything the world said a woman should want: a powerful husband, a career that opened doors, a body still soft and full in all the right places. Yet the ache between her thighs had become a constant, restless pulse. Her marriage had grown cold years ago. Richard fucked her like he was checking a box—quick, efficient, never lingering on the wet heat of her pussy or the way her boobs spilled out of her bra when she arched.

Tonight he was gone on business. The house was silent except for the low thunder and the soft click of the front door.