CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cortez
Madrid hums beneath me. My penthouse sits above it all—quiet, insulated—untouchable. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the skyline, the city glowing gold against the dark, traffic threading like veins through the streets below.
Inside, everything is curated.
Leather. Marble. Art that costs more than most men make in a year.
And tonight—company.
She’s beautiful. Long legs draped over the edge of my sofa, silk dress slipping just enough to suggest, not reveal. Dark hair, perfect skin, the kind of face that sells campaigns and starts rumors.
She laughs at something I didn’t fully listen to.
I smile anyway.
It’s a practiced thing.
Effortless.
Detached.
A glass of Rioja sits in my hand. I swirl it once, watching the legs slide down the crystal.
Routine.
Predictable.
Controlled.
My phone buzzes once on the table.
She shifts closer.
Her hand lands on my knee.
“I thought you said you were going to disconnect tonight,” she purrs.
“I did.”
Another buzz.
I glance at the screen this time.
Voicemail.
Unknown number. I have my office inbox messages forwarded to my work cell after hours.
I almost ignore it.
Almost.
Then something—I don’t know what—has me reaching for the phone.
“Give me a moment.”
She sighs, but smiles like she’s used to it. I step away, toward the windows, city spread out beneath me.
