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I'm the owner. Their friend, depending on which irritating asshole you ask.

I'm part of the Rovers.

But this? This particular thing has always belonged to them.

The couples.

The partners.

The people who walk into a room and automatically look for one person first.

Except this time, I look too. And there she is.

My person.

The thought hits hard enough that I don't bother correcting it. Because right there, surrounded by the wives, is my woman.

My Firecracker.

Fuck. She looks fantastic.

She's traded the professional clothes she usually wears around me for black leggings and a soft V-neck sweater that molds to every lush curve I've spent the last week becoming intimately acquainted with.

Long hair loose.

Hazel eyes bright.

Barely any makeup.

She's fucking beautiful.

Not gala beautiful. Not emerald silk and heels and carefully styled hair.

Just Layla beautiful.

And something about seeing her comfortable in my library, laughing with these women like she belongs here, lands somewhere deep in my chest.

She belongs in this room.

That's the thought.

Immediate.

Possessive.

Terrifyingly certain.

She belongs here.

With them.

With me.

Then Layla looks up. Finds me. And she smiles.

Not at Mitchell Knight, the billionaire who owns the house she's currently sitting in.

At me.