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Tomorrow, in the brutal light of day, there would be no more pretending to ignore the bright-red flags.

Tomorrow, I’d face the consequences of falling in love with a toxic man.

CHAPTER 27

SABRINA

Iswung open my office door and halted in my tracks.

Fuck.

Mark was here.

How could he just show up with no warning instead of just freaking replying to my DM?

I spun around and scanned the hall before slamming my office door shut, the heavy mahogany connecting with the frame with a sound that reverberated through my bones.

Outside, rain still drizzled against the windows, a dreary continuation of last night's storm.

My heart stuttered in my chest. "How did you get in here?"

He rose from the cream leather armchair and approached me, arms stretched open.

Mark was the perfect antithesis to the polished Italian luxury surrounding him—rugged in worn jeans, scuffed leather boots, and a wrinkled button-down with rolled sleeves that revealed tanned forearms.

His dark-brown hair fell across his forehead in perpetual disarray, the stubble on his jaw suggesting he hadn't bothered to shave in days. Droplets of rain still clung to his shoulders.

"Who could resist this face? What, don't I get a hug? I did travel all the way from Dubai just for you."

He shook off his damp jacket and hung it carelessly over the back of the chair.

I gave him a half-hearted hug and stepped back, catching the faint tang of darkroom chemicals that always clung to him.

He captured my hands and held my arms out. "Nice. Gucci? Perfect for this miserable weather."

Pulling my hands from his grasp, I smoothed my palms down over my hips. "Yes. So…you're here. Really here."

I glanced toward the rain-streaked window, the gloomy weather making the warm lights of my office seem even more isolated, like we were in a bubble separate from the world.

I then looked at the adjoining door to Sebastian's office.

I half expected the doorknob to turn at any moment, revealing Sebastian's imposing frame and his thunderous expression at finding another man in my space.

Swallowing down my panic, my throat dry, I gestured for Mark to take a seat while I crossed to the espresso machine.

He settled in, boots propped casually on the hand-knotted Aubusson rug that probably cost more than his entire camera collection.

He reached for the biscotti he'd been eating, crumbs falling onto the pristine surface of my desk. "God, I love Italy. Even when it's pissing rain."

With practiced movements, I made myself an espresso, then steamed the milk, creating a thick foam and pouring it carefully to form a leaf pattern on the surface. The familiar ritual steadied my hands.

Taking a quick sip, I smiled, the bitter warmth spreading through me.

This was stupid.

There was nothing to be nervous about.

Mark was one of the best fashion photographers out there.