It was five in the morning when I finally gave up on the idea of sleeping.
For the fourth consecutive night, sleep had abandoned me. It was that damn time of year again.
I had tossed and turned for hours, restless, hunted by thoughts that should no longer exist—blurred images of a past I would rather erase entirely.
I got out of bed abruptly, irritation coiling tight in my chest, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles framed my tired eyes, betraying me to the world. I exhaled sharply, frustrated.
Crossing the room, I stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse. The city stretched beneath me, slowly waking under a sky still wrapped in darkness. Down below, São Paulo was quiet for a few fleeting hours, as if the silence were nothing more than a temporary ceasefire before another chaotic day.
Chaotic days were the only ones I knew.
And the only ones I accepted.
I changed quickly—dark T-shirt, athletic pants—and headed straight for my private gym. Exhaustive training was the only way I had found to temporarily shut my mind off, to silence thevoices that insisted on whispering the same things, every single time this season approached.
Minutes later, I was running on the treadmill, gradually increasing the speed until every muscle in my body began to protest. I pushed through it anyway—sweating, breath ragged, stubbornly clinging to the desperate attempt to forget.
Each step felt like an effort to outrun something that constantly followed me.
Something I would never admit to anyone.
Five years—and I could still feel the weight of that look on me.
I increased the speed again, challenging my own limits, trying to replace unwanted emotion with physical pain and exhaustion.
Five years.
Five years since the day I almost lost everything. Since I nearly allowed a woman—one single woman—to destroy everything I had built.
Valentina.
Even now, just thinking her name felt like a violation of my thoughts. A weakness I could no longer afford. She had been the greatest mistake of my life, a stain I would do anything to erase completely. My jaw tightened involuntarily as the tension turned into physical pain.
Five years, and still—
When I finally stopped, nearly an hour later, my muscles burned and my breathing was uneven, but my mind was silent. That was exactly how it needed to be.
A cold, bracing shower followed. Then the suit—dark, perfectly tailored, as always. As I adjusted the tie around my neck, I studied my reflection.
There he was again.
Enrico Ferrara. Impeccable. Strong. Untouchable.
The man known for being unshakable. The CEO nothing could bring down.
It was a little past six-thirty when I left my bedroom. My housekeeper would have prepared breakfast exactly the way I liked it: strong coffee and fruit cut with near-surgical precision.
But when I walked into the kitchen, what I saw nearly convinced me the lack of sleep had finally caused hallucinations.
Sitting comfortably at my kitchen table—eating a generous plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, my favorite coffee mug in his hand—was André.
My brother.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” he greeted me, flashing a wide grin as he lifted my mug in a mock toast. “I thought you were going to spend the entire day playing superhero on the treadmill.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, fixing him with an impatient stare.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
