The city was still half-asleep when Tristan stepped into the penthouse.
His tie was hanging loose on his neck, the sleeves of his shirt were folded up to his elbow, and he walked into floor-to-ceiling windows framed by the skyline, streaked with the early morning golden sun.
He took off his tie, dropped his phone on the marble counter, and poured himself a drink.
His woman was already there— curled on the couch in one of his shirts, sunglasses discarded this time.
Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, legs crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips.
“Wild night?” She inquired.
“Hmm,” he replied.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I was busy cleaning up a mess your intel created,” he replied lazily, taking a sip. “TMP’s audit team almost caught on to the dummy file you insisted we
