Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
When he stepped off on the penthouse floor, he walked into a world of gleaming shadows; with the lights dimmed the entire apartment was nothing but obsidian and glass, three walls and the ceiling completely open to the night, the wall with the elevator a mass of gold-veined black, the enormous room scattered with thick black gold-veined pillars. Even as he tread quietly across the floor, the high corners overhead picked up echoes, and made ongoing whispers and whispers and whispers of his steps.
The space was so massive it seemed there was hardly enough to fill it, separate areas defined less by the subtle raised or recessed terraces and more by the vast gulfs of emptiness in between. The kitchen was a raised island near the far wall, only for steps to lead down into a recessed dining area with elegant seating arrangements; the living room was just the center of the expansive floor, with a few white leather couches and chairs scattered about, minimalist modernism complemented by black glass tables. A massive bed that had to be twice the size of a California King, a carved ebonwood platform with gray coverings, stood on another dais to one side, positioned for a view of sunrise in the east, while the bathroom was separated off behind a standing screen of what looked like fragile obsidian shaved into a semitranslucent sheet, half-masking the massive sunken recessed bath. A few minimalist decorations hung about, clearly priceless paintings and prints in black and white, potted plants with subtle sprays of perfectly tended white flowers, a lacquer vase here and there.
And it all felt so…empty. So lifeless. Hardly a human touch anywhere.
He didn’t know how anyone could live like this.
He set his cello case down on the sofa and peeled out of his coat, then drifted across the room to the fireplace set into the obsidian wall, so tall and wide he could practically step into it bodily. Along the carved mantle on the top, several framed photos had been scattered about—the only things in this room that said Victor had selected them rather than some tasteful and stylish interior decorator. Amani had to stand on his toes to see, balancing lightly and gripping the edge of the mantle; he lingered on an old, faded photograph of a family in front of a sprawling Victorian mansion, the man square and stolid in a fine suit, the woman ramrod-straight and slim with a stubborn jaw and an icy sweep of blond hair tucked back severely, her mouth displeased while his was just grim.
A teenage boy stood at her side, blond and rangy with a sort of cruel sneer. Not Victor, even though he had Victor’s jaw, his angular build with narrow hips and broad shoulders. No, Amani thought Victor was the little boy on the woman’s hip, his head tucked against her shoulder and his wide blue eyes almost mournful. He’d been an adorably chubby little thing, a little pup even back then, his brown hair combed back and probably just waiting to be mussed the moment he was allowed to run off and dirty up his little sailor suit instead of being so proper for the camera.
In the next picture, there was only Victor—maybe thirteen or fourteen, but perfectly poised in a suit that made him look like a slender little adult already, standing between parents who looked exactly the same if a little bit older. The other boy was gone from the picture entirely, and something had changed in Victor’s pale blue eyes, something haunted and quiet but resolute. The next photo was almost identical, Victor just a few years older, seventeen or eighteen but already handsome.
The rest of the photos, however, weren’t of Victor at all. They showed a young redheaded woman, pretty with soft brown eyes and a laughing face; from the photo quality they were clearly recent, though it wasn’t hard to chart chronology over the course of years by the age of the little girl she often held. Her hair was as red as the woman’s, even in newborn photos with the woman sweaty and flushed in a hospital gown—but her eyes were the pale blue of a winter sky, and they glittered as she was captured laughing in so many pictures that tracked her from a tiny red-faced nugget of cuteness into a carefree little girl chasing dandelion wisps through a field with her entire face lit up with wonder. If he had to guess by the last photo, she was maybe ten or eleven, but every time she smiled it was that same sweet, carefree smile as the baby in the very first picture.
“See anything that interests you?” rumbled at his back.
Amani sucked in a breath, dropping down from his toes and letting go of the edge of the mantle to turn. Victor stood a few feet away, watching him with thinly veiled amusement. He was dressed for work, that slick waistcoat and slacks like armor, hiding him behind the man who’d spoken to Amani on the phone rather than the flustered confused thing who didn’t seem to know what to do in his presence. Pale blue eyes flicked over him, clearly taking him in, before Victor looked over his head at the line of photos.