Drake Humphrey’s POV
The penthouse apartment was a mausoleum of impeccable taste. Every object—from the abstract art on the walls to the seamless expanse of marble flooring. It was expensive, cold, and utterly silent. It was a space designed for two people who shared a bank account but not a life.
I walked into the living room just before midnight, the quiet hum of the climate control the only sound. I felt exhausted, not from the day’s corporate battles, but from the brutal emotional whiplash of the last hour: the defiant hunger on the cold stone floor, the devastating confession of my need, and the immediate, frantic necessity of turning Chloe into a hidden asset.
Margaret was waiting.
She wasn't on the couch or reading. She was standing by the window, a glass of clear liquor in her
