The office smelled of whiskey and cold glass. I sat there long after the penthouse had gone quiet, shirt undone, tie discarded, the city lights painting fractured lines across the desk. Papers waited, deals, acquisitions, signatures. None of it cut through the storm in my head.
Amber’s voice replayed instead.
For tonight.
The words cut deeper than they should have, like she could put an expiration date on me, like she could grant possession with a clock on it and snatch it back when it pleased her.
My jaw ached from clenching. My hand still bore the faint tremor from gripping the glass too tight. Rage had always been easy, rage was familiar, predictable. It was control that caged me, left me restless. But under the rage something else clawed up, sharper, rawer. Something I didn’t want
