Taylor loosened his bow tie as they stepped inside. “You should sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
Maya took three steps toward the living room.
The floor tilted.
It was not dramatic at first. Just a sudden absence beneath her. Her vision narrowed at the edges, the lights thinning into streaks. She put out a hand for the back of the sofa and found only air. Then the pressure in her chest became pain, hot and wrong, and the room rushed sideways.
She heard Taylor say her name before she hit the floor.
He caught her badly and beautifully—too late to stop the fall completely, but early enough that her shoulder met his arm instead of marble. They went down in a tangle, her cheek against the front of his shirt, his hand braced behind her head.
“Maya.”
She tried to answer. No sound came.
The penthouse ceiling was a white blur. Her breath snagged. Somewhere above her Taylor’s voice turned sharper, stripped of polish. “Maya, look at me.”
