By six in the evening, the penthouse was immaculately clean. Every glass surface gleamed, the heavy oak floors were spotless, and the sharp scent of lavender lemon polish lingered in the air, masking the cold, sterile smell of the apartment.
Niya wiped down the kitchen counter for the third time, her arms aching. But the physical fatigue was nothing compared to the violent, throbbing pressure behind her eyes. It had started as a dull ache in the morning, but now it felt as though a hot iron was being pressed into her skull.
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