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Instead, he grabbed the plate of brownies. Fine. This would be dinner. He stalked back to his office with the plate in one hand, whiskey bottle in the other. He poured a large dose, drained it, then poured another. Even after he’d downed that too, his sanctuary, the one room where he could always think clearly, still didn’t feel right.

Something was…off.

His phone buzzed. His assistant needed details for a contract. Paulo growled, pulled open the drawer with current projects, and pulled out the folder. Perfect, business could distract him. Except the papers inside had nothing to do with the project.

This file was the Peterson contract estimates. Wrong file.

He stared at the label. It was the right folder. Just…all the wrong documents.

“Madelaine,” he muttered darkly, rifling through the rest of the drawers. By the time he’d found the correct paperwork, nearly thirty minutes had gone by. His assistant finally got his answer, but Paulo was seething.

And starving.

Snatching up a brownie, he shoved a bite into his mouth.

Instant regret.

This wasn’t the soft, chocolatey bliss Madelaine had offered earlier. This was chalky, bitter, lumpy. Hell, he wasn’t sure if it was even safe for human consumption.

Paulo gagged, spitting the bite into a napkin.

That devil woman had switched the brownies!

Shoving the disgusting, lumpy…whatever the hell it was…into the garbage, Paulo slammed the lid shut harder than necessary. The metallic clang echoed through the room, mocking him. For a long moment, he glared at the rest of the so-called brownies, baffled that such an abomination could even exist.

Then it hit him. Madelaine had told him she’d take the good brownies to his guards. These…these hideous imposters, were hers.

Damn it!

He almost laughed at the absurdity, but the taste still lingered on his tongue. For a heartbeat, he considered calling an ambulance, just in case she’d poisoned him with whatever disaster she’d concocted. But when no nausea came, he exhaled sharply, relief cut short by irritation.

Hell, how did anyone screw up chocolate, sugar, and flour? Even he knew the basics of baking, and he rarely set foot in a kitchen. Madelaine had been standing right beside Rosa, copying her step for step. Yet, Rosa’s brownies were perfection, while Madelaine’s tasted like dirt mixed with lumpy cardboard.

It didn’t make sense. No logic, no science, no universe could explain how she’d managed to ruin brownies.

Dragging a hand down his face, Paulo cursed under his breath and forced himself back to business. He laid out the list of foods she’d written and snapped a picture, sending it off to his assistant. “Make sure all of this is at the wake for Ronan Keane. And get the publicity team moving. Social feeds, old crimes, suspected murders. I want it everywhere.”

A yawn crackled through the line, grating against Paulo’s raw nerves. He glanced at the clock. Past midnight. Where the hell had the time gone?

He relented, despite his frustration and hunger. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” His tone was clipped as he disconnected, dropping the phone beside him.

The list still sat on the table, her neat handwriting taunting him. Those same hands had touched him, driven him insane with need. Those fingers had curled in his hair, clutched his back, pulled him into her while she trembled with pleasure. And now?

Now, she was upstairs. Alone.

Paulo’s jaw flexed. He couldn’t go back to his own bed—cold, empty, unbearable—now that he knew what it felt like to have her soft body pressed against his. Night after night, he’d held her. Night after night, he’d felt whole.

Snatching up the whiskey bottle, he stalked to the sofa and dropped heavily onto it. He stretched his legs across the table, took a long pull from the bottle, and glared at her list.

He tried to shape words, to form apologies, to plan out some grand declaration that would make her forgive him. Every speech fell apart, his frustration building with every gulp of whiskey. By the time the bottle was half-empty, he still had nothing. No magic words, no clear plan. Only one certainty burned through the haze of alcohol and anger:

He had to capture her father. Not for vengeance. Not for control. For her safety.

And once she was safe, Paulo swore he’d figure out how the hell to keep Madelaine in his life, whether she liked it or not.

Chapter 30

Madelaine woke with a start, blinking against the pale morning light spilling through the filmy curtains. She hadn’t even bothered to change last night, just curled on top of the covers with her book clutched in her hand, a throw blanket tangled around her legs. The lamp still glowed, a faint halo against the dawn.