The door of the penthouse was closed with a very audible sound in the silence. Daemon didn't turn on the light, and the apartment was only kept away from total darkness thanks to the outside sparing some of the light splashing all over the place to include the apartment in the chaotic painting the mess created.
But as dim as the penthouse was, Daemon's heart seemed only dimmer. He seemed only too happy to let the lightless place reflect how his heart was feeling behind the impassive mask he was sporting.
He calmly took off his dark gloves, before he threw them, along with his blazer on the counter of the kitchen-cum-bar. Though the bar part of that corner had been neglected by Daemon, there was at least one bottle of alcohol which he took out and placed on the counter.
It had never been touched. He never touched alcohol, or to be precise, he almost never touched alcohol, and he almost never had a guest.
