I smooth a hand over the back of her dress, more to steady myself than her. “This was a mistake.”
Her expression flickers. “You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“I am.”
The honesty of it lands between us.
Outside, the SUV slows. The building comes into view through the glass. Steel. Light. Height. Safety, if such a thing still exists for either of us.
I help her fix the hem of her dress without comment. She pushes her hair back with trembling fingers. We do not look at each other while we put ourselves back together.
But before the car stops completely, I reach for her once more, my hand covering hers for one brief, brutal second.
I hate myself for wanting you, I think.I hate myself more because that changes nothing.
Then I let go, and the SUV pulls to a stop.
23
Birdie
That was a mistake. I knew it before Lorenzo voiced it. I glance at him as we walk up to the building. But hearing him admit it was a mistake hurt so much.
“Where are we?”
“This is where you will stay.”
“Right. Because I’m sure your wife is going to have a fit when she finds out I’m back.” I let out a laugh. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?”
His jaw tics, and he doesn’t answer. Instead, he puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me though the glass doors. There are men stationed by the elevators, but none that I know.
In the elevator, Lorenzo uses his palm to activate the lift. We rise so quickly that I sway a bit. He reaches out to steady me, and I pull away.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“Guess you shouldn’t have fucked me in the back of a SUV, then,” I snap back.
The jerk has the nerve to smile.
When the doors open, I find myself staring at a beautiful living room.
It looks nothing like his other place. Where that one was all dark wood and old money and shadows, this is bright. Vast. Full of light.
The entire far wall is glass, stretching from floor to ceiling and framing Chicago like a living painting. The skyline glitters in the late afternoon, all steel and silver and cold blue sky fading toward dusk. Below, the city looks impossibly distant and harmless from up here.
It’s the kind of place designed to impress people into silence.
Wide-plank pale oak floors glow beneath recessed lighting. Cream-colored sofas curve around a low marble table. A sleek black fireplace cuts a sharp line into one wall, while the other holds built-in shelves filled with art books, sculptural objects, and carefully arranged crystal that looks too expensive to touch. There are fresh white orchid arrangements placed with almost clinical precision, and a grand piano sits near the windows like someone expects the room to host elegant parties instead of emotional hostage situations.
I take a few steps in, slowly, trying not to let him see how breathtaking it is. And how lonely. Because despite all the light, the place doesn’t feel warm. It feels curated. Beautiful in the way a museum is beautiful—meant to be admired, not lived in.
I turn in a slow circle. “You bought me a gilded cage.”
Behind me, Lorenzo shuts the penthouse door with a soft click. “If that’s what you need to call it.”
I glance over my shoulder. “I call them like I see them.”
