The night air in Damian’s penthouse carried the faint scent of sandalwood and smoke — his scent. But tonight, as Elena stepped into the room, something else lingered in the air — floral, delicate, and wrong. A perfume that didn’t belong to her.
Her pulse quickened. It was faint but unmistakable, clinging to the edge of his jacket draped carelessly on the armchair. She reached out, fingertips brushing the soft fabric, her stomach tightening.
The elevator chimed. Damian entered, composed as ever, his tie loosened, a shadow of weariness on his face.
“You’re early,” he said, voice warm but measured.
“So are you,” Elena replied softly, watching his every movement. He avoided her gaze just long enough for doubt to grow roots.
He crossed the room, poured two glasses of wine. “Rough day?” he
