Chapter 4

The text came at one in the morning. *Come back. I'm still here.* I stared at the screen for a full minute, my heart pounding. I was already in my pajamas, my makeup removed, my hair damp from the shower. Every rational part of my brain told me to turn off my phone and go to sleep. Instead, I pulled on the emerald dress again—still draped over the chair where I had left it—and called a car. The penthouse was quiet when I arrived. The lights were dimmed, the remnants of the party cleared away. I found him in the living room, sitting on the leather sofa, a half-empty bottle of scotch on the table in front of him. He looked up when I entered, and I saw something flicker in his eyes—relief, hunger, a mixture of both. "You came," he said softly. "I shouldn't have." I closed the door behind me. "But I did." He stood, crossing the room toward me. He had changed out of his tuxedo, wearing dark slacks and a white button-down, the top buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up. He looked tired and beautiful and dangerous. "You were right to be conflicted earlier," he said,