Marcus’s penthouse was quiet, bathed in the warm glow of dimmed lights and the low hum of the jazz playing from the speakers. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to a glittering skyline, Manhattan lights scattered like stars fallen from the sky. A bottle of red wine stood half-empty on the coffee table, two glasses nearby, untouched for the last twenty minutes.
The evening had been perfect—on paper.
Marcus had pulled out all the stops. Candlelight. A catered dinner from that impossible-to-book French place in Midtown. Easy conversation. A shared bottle of wine. Laughter, even. He’d listened—really listened—as Isabelle talked about work, about Elliott’s sudden obsession with medieval armor, about how Amelia wanted to be a unicorn for Halloween and a vet by Christmas.
He was good at this.
Th
