The security at Zara's Upper East Side building wasn't just decorative. It was structural.
Ryan's cab was stopped at a heavy wrought-iron gate before it even reached the underground garage.
A man in a tailored suit and an earpiece checked Ryan's ID against a digital ledger, his eyes sweeping the interior of the cab with professional, unblinking efficiency. Only after the silent confirmation did the gates roll back.
The private elevator opened directly into the foyer of the penthouse.
Ryan stepped out of the steel carriage. The air in the apartment was fundamentally different from the freezing, exhaust-choked streets below. It smelled of vanilla, crushed cedar, and absolute safety. The ambient hum of a high-end HVAC system masked the noise of the city entirely.
Zara was waiting for him.
