Not a booty call.
No, I made the right decision.
A clean break was the only way out. Or what I like to refer to as the chicken-shit option.
We round the corner, and my house comes into view. The tension drains from my shoulders at the first glimpse of blue sky, trees and flowers, the lake just beyond. A small patch of paradise tucked outside the city.
A place that keeps my kids grounded and safe. Fresh air in their lungs. Green grass under their feet. A carefree world that exists just for them.
The penthouse is different. It’s functional. It’s for the nights when work bleeds into morning, and the routine becomes twenty-hour days, shower, change, repeat.
When someone’s life depends on my ability to stay focused and fresh.
It doesn’t hurt that the rent is unbeatable.
As in free.
Perks of the Donovan empire.
The kids keep asking when they can come out there with me when I work. And I say soon.
Until I make it more kid-friendly and less four concrete walls and an empty fridge, they’re better off at home. It’s been a back-burner project for longer than I care to admit.
I don’t go there to relax. I go there to reset my brain and shove myself back into the fight.
It has exactly what I need and nothing more. Toiletries. Clean towels and linens.
And… shit.
Fresh clothes.
I glance at my outfit. Why didn’t I just put on something else?
Maybe because these came out of Pix’s backpack and still smell like her.
I pull my phone from my pocket.
Still dead.
Relief curls low in my chest before I can stop it.
Because now I can’t ask the concierge if she’s still there.
When we pull into the driveway, I’m out of the car before Travis can reach my door. Old habits. Still, I pause and look back at him.
“Check on her.”
He chuckles. “Check on who?”
Smart ass.
“You know who. Call the concierge. See if she needs anything. If she does, you get it. If she has to go somewhere, you take her. No one else.”
“And report back to you?”
I pause. “No.”
He studies me for a beat, then quirks a brow. “You don’t want an update?”
