Morning arrived through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting warm light over the sleek, modern lines of the Delaney penthouse. High above the city, the skyline do Regency Heights stretched like a jagged crown of glass and steel, blurred slightly by mist.
The living room was an architectural dream: cool marble floors, low black leather furniture, and accents of gold and obsidian. A sculptural staircase spiraled upward like a helix. Everything was pristine, designed to impress—except for the man slumped over the matte granite kitchen island.
Avery groaned, burying his face in his folded arms.
"Why is the sun so loud?" he mumbled.
Across from him, Sloane raised a perfectly arched brow from his wheelchair, slowly sipping black coffee. He wore an oversized forest green cashmere sweater, and his hair was damp from the shower, curling slightly at the nape.
"You're hungover," Sloane said flatly. "From fruit wine."
