Whispers of the Veil

Whispers of the Veil
Sophia Laurent moved through the marble corridors of her Manhattan penthouse like a ghost in her own life. Thirty-four years old, skin like polished alabaster, hair the color of wet mahogany that fell in heavy waves past her shoulders, eyes the green of deep forest pools after rain. Men turned when she entered rooms; women studied her with envy or hunger. She commanded boardrooms, closed deals worth millions, wore silk that whispered against her thighs and heels that clicked like distant gunshots. Yet every night, when the city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling glass, she stood naked before the mirror and felt nothing but the hollow echo of her own breathing...

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