The next morning, the press had already swallowed them whole.
“Renault Sells Milan Property to Alina?”
“Nicholas Delore Seen Leaving Her Penthouse at Dawn.”
“Who’s Taming Who at Delore Noir?”
Alina read the headlines with her legs stretched across the marble counter, silk robe parted and one heel dangling from her toes. She didn’t blink.
She sipped her coffee.
Watched the city through glass.
And let the world talk.
Nicholas walked out of her shower, towel low on his hips, still damp and glistening. She didn’t look at him. Not yet.
“Want me to kill the article?” he asked casually.
“No.”
“No?”
“Let them burn.”
His eyes gleamed. “That’s my girl.”
She turned.
And the moment their eyes met, her body flared with heat.
He wanted her again.
No—needed her.
And she could feel it in
