Chapter 160 Shadows on the Glass

Chapter 160 Shadows on the Glass
Nate’s POV

Mila fell asleep quickly.

Not peacefully—she never slept peacefully anymore—but fast, as if her body had finally given up fighting the adrenaline still humming through her veins. Her breathing evened out against my chest, her fingers curled lightly in the fabric of my shirt, her hair fanned across the pillow in dark waves.

I stayed beside her until her grip loosened. Until her lashes stopped fluttering. Until the tension in her shoulders melted into the mattress.

Only then did I slip out of bed.

The penthouse was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt earned. The city lights bled through the windows in soft gold streaks, painting the hardwood floors with reflections that shifted every time a car passed below. I moved through the space silently, checking the locks, the balcony latch, the alarm panel—habit, not paranoia.

The balcony door was secure. Triple‑latched. Reinforced. I’d installed the extra hardware myself after the sleepwalking incident. I checked it anyway.

Everything was still.

Everything was safe.

I should have gone back to bed.

Instead, I found myself standing in front of the security console, watching the monitors flicker through their usual cycle. Lobby. Elevators. Stairwells. Parking garage. Street view. Nothing unusual. Nothing alarming. Just the quiet hum of a building settling into the late hours of the night.

I didn’t know what I was looking for.

Maybe I wasn’t looking for anything at all.

Maybe I just needed to breathe—needed a moment to let the night settle, to let the adrenaline drain from my own system. The gala had been a battlefield, and even now, hours later, my body felt coiled, ready for another strike that hadn’t come.

I rubbed a hand over my jaw and turned away from the console, heading back toward the bedroom. The door was cracked open, just as I’d left it. A soft sliver of warm light spilled across the hallway.

But when I stepped inside, the bed was empty.

My pulse kicked hard.

“Mila?”

No answer.

The sheets were still warm. She hadn’t been gone long.

I scanned the room—bathroom door open, closet empty, no movement behind the curtains. The panic rose fast and sharp, the kind that didn’t wait for logic or reason.

I went straight to the balcony.

The latch was still locked.

All three locks.

I checked them twice.

She wasn’t outside.

I exhaled shakily, forcing my heartbeat to slow. She wasn’t sleepwalking toward a ledge. She wasn’t in danger. She was somewhere in the penthouse. She had to be.

I stepped back into the hallway, listening.

Nothing.

The silence felt wrong now—too deep, too heavy, too absolute. The kind of silence that made the air feel thick, like the whole space was holding its breath.

I moved through the living room, past the piano, past the console, past the dining table. The city lights cast long shadows across the floor, stretching toward the windows like dark fingers.

And then I saw her.

Sitting on the floor by the far window.

Her knees pulled up to her chest. Her arms wrapped loosely around them. Her hair fell forward in a curtain that hid most of her face. She was barefoot, still wearing the emerald gown, the diamonds at her throat catching faint glints of light.

She didn’t move when I approached.

She didn’t look up.

She didn’t seem to hear me at all.

“Mila,” I said softly.

Her head lifted a fraction, just enough for me to see her eyes.

They weren’t frightened.

They weren’t panicked.

They were… distant.

Like she was looking at something far beyond the city, something I couldn’t see.

I crouched beside her. “Hey. What are you doing out here?”

She blinked slowly, as if the question took time to reach her. “I… don’t know.”

Her voice was quiet. Not shaky. Not upset. Just quiet in a way that made my chest tighten.

“What woke you?” I asked gently.

She shook her head. “I don’t remember waking up.”

I swallowed hard.

She wasn’t sleepwalking.

She wasn’t dreaming.

She wasn’t panicking.

She was dissociating.

“Mila,” I murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. “Talk to me.”

She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers like she wasn’t sure they belonged to her. “I just… ended up here.”

“Did something scare you?”

“No.”

“Did you hear something?”

“No.”

“Did you see something?”

She shook her head again, slower this time. “I don’t think so.”

I sat beside her, my shoulder touching hers. She didn’t lean into me. She didn’t pull away. She just stared out at the city, her expression soft and unfocused.

The rain had started again, tapping lightly against the glass. The sound was steady, rhythmic, almost soothing. But Mila didn’t seem to hear it.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the skyline.

“I feel like I forgot something,” she whispered.

My breath caught. “Forgot what?”

“I don’t know.” Her brow furrowed. “Something important.”

I reached for her hand. She let me take it, her fingers cold against mine. “You’re safe,” I said quietly. “You’re here. You’re with me.”

She nodded, but the movement was small, almost mechanical.

I hated this.

I hated seeing her like this—untethered, drifting, pulled somewhere I couldn’t follow. The gala had cracked something open inside her, and now the pieces were shifting in ways neither of us understood. And the worst part was knowing she didn’t even realize how far away she’d gone.

I squeezed her hand gently. “Come back to bed.”

She didn’t move.

“Mila.”

She blinked again, her eyes finally focusing on me. “I didn’t mean to get up.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to leave.”

“I know.”

“I just… ended up here.”

I brushed my thumb across her knuckles. “Then let’s go back.”

She nodded, slow and tired, and let me help her to her feet. Her legs wobbled slightly, but she steadied herself with a hand on my arm. I guided her back through the living room, past the piano, past the console, past the shadows stretching across the floor.

When we reached the bedroom, she paused in the doorway.

“Nate?”

“Yeah.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t let me disappear.”

My chest tightened painfully. “I won’t.”

She climbed into bed, curling beneath the blankets. I sat beside her until her breathing steadied again, until her eyes drifted shut, until the tension in her shoulders eased.

But even after she fell asleep, I stayed awake.

Watching her.

Listening to the rain.

And wondering what, exactly, she had forgotten.