That does it. That ends me.
I shift her down onto the couch, flipping her beneath me, claiming every inch, every sound, every pulse of her body like it belongs to me—because for those few minutes, it does.
Her hands clutch the armrest. Her moans echo like music I forgot I loved. And just before everything crashes down around us, I feel it—her body trembling, clenching, spiraling.
I fall with her.Hard.
“Jesus, Em…” I groan, voice hoarse and guttural, lips bitten raw.
And then, through the haze, I hear it.
“I missed you,” she whispers. “God, I missed you so much.”
Everything stops.
She… missed me?Shemissedme? My breath catches. My body goes still. I pull away slowly, too aware of the mess we’ve made and the mess still inside me.
What the hell did I just do?
I stand, dragging my boxers back up, suddenly cold, suddenly furious.
Emma moves quickly, sensing the shift. “Luca, wait?—”
“Don’t,” I snap, searching for my shirt. My hands tremble as I pick it up, brushing off glass from the frame that crashed to the floor.
“But… what did I say?” she stammers, trying to cover herself. “I’m on the pill. Don’t worry?—”
“That’s not—” I cut in, voice rising. “God, that’s not what this is about. You don’t get to say that to me. Notyou.Notafter everything.”
I find the door. My pulse is a war drum in my throat.
“Luca, please—what did I do?”
I pause at the threshold. Look at her one last time. Naked, flushed, confused. Beautiful. “You don’t get to miss me, Em,” I say quietly. “You don’t get to say that—after I let you in, after I gave you everything, and you tore me to shreds.”
And with that, I walk out of her apartment.
And out of her life.
Again.
I’m on a plane; eyes locked on the flute in my hand.
There’s a meeting in New York with my brothers, and I didn’t even hesitate when the opportunity came up. I needed distance from Emma. Even if just for a couple of days.
The bitter taste in my mouth hasn’t left since that night. It felt sorightto be with her, so natural—but the second my past bled into the present, the pleasure vanished. And reality slammed into me like a freight train.
How dare she say she missed me?Sheleftme. She left me waiting there for five hours and never showed up.
I realize my grip on the glass is too tight. A flight attendant walks by and flashes me a smile, but I turn toward the window instead. I’m not interested, sweetheart. See, there’s this woman who once scrambled my brain—and now she’s doing it again.
Once I land in New York, I head straight to the hotel. Time to gear up for a full day of numbers, performance reports, and strategic wrestling with my brothers. At least my branch numbers aren’t the worst. That honor belongs to Silas.
Killian and Oliver are already chatting by the door. When they see me, they both break into grins. Damn, they really do look alike. Same sharp jawlines, same green eyes—but that’s where the similarities end.
Oliver stands tall, shoulders squared, posture as rigid as the starched line of his suit. His black hair is cropped short, his expression steady, unreadable, though the faint crease at the corner of his mouth hints at a restrained smile. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t fidget, doesn’t fill silence with words—his calm weight says more than most people’s speeches.
Killian, on the other hand, is all movement. He leans against the wall, dark hair styled in a sharp fade, his grin wide and easy. One hand tugs at the cuff of his jacket, the ink of his tattoos just visible as he adjusts it. His energy is magnetic, his green eyes bright with mischief, always ready for an audience.
