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Cameras. Whispers.

By morning, there will probably be photographs of us everywhere. The billionaire recluse dancing with the investigative journalist.

Knight's mystery woman.

Rovers owner seen with secret lover.

Whatever. I've spent years controlling what the public knows about me.

Tonight? I don't give a single fuck.

And judging by the way Layla tipped her face toward mine and kept dancing, neither did she. She feels it.

This connection.

This heat.

This insane fucking intensity that's been building between us since the moment I walked across that ballroom and introduced myself.

I know she feels it because every time my hand shifted against her back, her breath caught.

Because when I looked at her mouth, she looked at mine.

Because twice tonight we came close enough to kiss that stopping felt physically painful.

And because when the gala finally ended and I asked if she was ready to go home, she didn't correct me.

Home.

My penthouse.

With me.

The thought has been fucking with my head ever since. By the time the elevator climbs toward the penthouse, the silence between us is almost unbearable.

Layla stands beside me. Close. But not touching. And somehow that's worse.

I can hear her breathing. I can smell her perfume. I can see her reflection in the polished elevator doors and know she's watching mine.

Neither of us says a word.

The elevator chimes. The doors open.

Layla walks out first.

I follow.

One step.

Two.

Three.

The doors close behind us. And everything changes.

There’s no ballroom. No cameras. No reporters. No mean girl bullshit.

No curious fucking audience waiting to see what Mitchell Knight does next.