I am a bastard of the highest order, and the woman sleeping in my bed deserves so much better than the devil she has bound herself to.
My phone vibrates against my thigh, shattering the fragile stillness of the moment, and I slip it from my pocket to find Drake's name illuminating the screen. The text is short, clipped, carrying the particular urgency that tells me something has gone wrong in the hours I spent learning every inch of Persia's body instead of watching my empire.
Fire in the basement. Contained but deliberate. You need to see this.
Magnus. The name rises in my throat like bile, bitter and burning and absolutely certain. That silver-haired bastard cannot accept that he has lost, cannot stomach the idea that someone took what he considered his property before he had a chance to break her.
I cast one last look at Persia, at the violet hair spilling across my pillow and the soft part of her lips as she breathes, and something twists in my chest that feels dangerously close to tenderness. She looks so young in sleep, so unmarked by the world that has tried so hard to destroy her, and I want nothing more than to crawl back into that bed and hold her until the sun finishes its climb into the sky.
Instead, I do what I have always done. I choose the empire over everything soft and leave her sleeping in sheets that still smell of sex and the sweetness of her skin.
The penthouse is silent as I move through the living room toward the private elevator. I pause at the kitchen long enough to start a pot of coffee, leaving a note on the counter that reads onlyBack soonbefore I step into the elevator and let the doors close on the life I am not sure I deserve.
Drake meets me in the basement with soot on his sleeves and a grim set to his jaw that tells me everything I need to know before he opens his mouth.
"Accelerant was professional grade," he says, leading me through the concrete maze of storage rooms and mechanical systems that form the foundation of Redthorne Holdings. "Started in the electrical room, spread to the backup generators before security caught it. Another ten minutes and we would have lost the whole system."
The damage is contained but deliberate, exactly as Drake described. Scorch marks climb the walls in patterns that speak of careful planning, and the acrid smell of melted plastic and burnt wiring fills my lungs with every breath.
"Cameras?"
"Disabled remotely about twenty minutes before the fire started. Whoever did this knew our security protocols." Drake crosses his arms over his broad chest and watches me examine the damage with eyes that miss nothing. "Magnus has people inside Redthorne, brother. That is the only explanation."
The rage that unfurls in my chest is cold and patient, the kind of anger that does not burn hot and fast but rather simmers until it finds the perfect moment to strike. Magnus Sterling thinks he can intimidate me into releasing what I have claimed. He thinks a basement fire and a few corrupted security feeds will make me reconsider my position.
He has no idea who he is dealing with.
"Double the security rotation," I say, my voice flat and controlled despite the violence coiling in my muscles. "I want everyemployee who has accessed this level in the past month vetted again. And Drake..."
I turn to face my oldest friend, letting him see the promise in my eyes.
"Send someone to keep watch over Persia. I do not want her left alone until we find the leak. They do not go in. Guard the elevator and contact you or me if anyone tries to approach."
Drake nods once, sharp and efficient, before pulling out his phone to make the necessary calls.
I spend the next hour dealing with the aftermath of Magnus's petty attempt at intimidation, coordinating with building management and security teams while my mind keeps drifting back to the woman sleeping thirty-two floors above my head. By the time I return to my private office on the executive floor, the sun has fully risen and the weight of everything I have not yet dealt with settles across my shoulders like a physical burden.
I should go to her. I should climb into that bed and wake her with my mouth on her skin and my hands in her hair and show her that last night meant something more than a contract and a calculated transaction.
Instead, I pull up the security feed on my laptop and let myself watch her sleep.
The camera angle captures her from above, a bird's-eye view of the woman who has somehow become the center of my carefully controlled universe. She has rolled onto her side since I left, one arm tucked beneath my pillow like she is searching for my warmth even in sleep, and the sight of it does something complicated to the organ beating behind my ribs.
I watch for exactly thirty seconds before I force myself to kill the feed.
I cannot afford distractions right now. I have fires to put out, both literal and metaphorical, and a meeting to arrange that will determine the course of my future and Persia's place in it.
I text Massimo with instructions to set up a meeting at Club Genesis with Governor Fiore. The contract Persia signed last night needs her father's signature to be fully binding in the eyes of the underworld, and I want this done on neutral ground where the rules of engagement are clear and enforceable.
Then I bury myself in work, meeting after meeting stacking up like bricks in a wall I am building between myself and the woman I should be with. Quarterly reports and territory disputes and shipping manifests that require my personal attention, all of it feeling hollow and meaningless compared to the memory of Persia's voice breaking on my name as she shattered beneath me.
I check the security feed twice more throughout the morning, watching her wake and stretch and pad barefoot to the kitchen where Marta has left breakfast warming in the oven. I watch her talk with my cook, their conversation inaudible but their body language speaking of the easy rapport they have developed over the past weeks. I watch her roam through the penthouse with a restlessness I recognize intimately, trailing her fingers over furniture and pausing at windows to stare out at a city that has no idea a violet-haired angel is trapped in one of its highest towers.
By early afternoon, I cannot stand the distance any longer.
I retreat to my private office and pull out my phone, typing a message before I can talk myself out of it.
Go up to the pool.
