The morning felt deceptively calm. The storm had cleared, leaving New York scrubbed raw and shining, sunlight spilling in harsh angles across the penthouse floor. I thought maybe the air itself had been reset, that the heaviness of last night, the almost-touch, the almost-kiss, could be shaken off like the rain. But I should have known better—storms never really pass in my world, they just wait for the next c***k of thunder.
Nate had disappeared into his study again, buried in phone calls, his voice clipped and low, a man who made decisions that felt like verdicts. That left me to the mercy of his carefully organized staff. One of the assistants, a stern woman with a bun wound so tight it looked painful, announced that I would be “taken shopping” to refresh my wardrobe. Her tone made it s
