Chapter 9

The penthouse greeted him with silence.

Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that presses in on your ribs, too tight and too loud in its emptiness.

Kyl stepped inside and let the door close behind him with a hiss. The city lights blinked through the wall of glass, casting cold reflections on the polished marble floor. Everything inside the space was as immaculate and calculated as he was steel, glass, stone, no color, no warmth. No softness.

Except her.

Ivana.

The image of her lingered in his head like smoke, wild blonde hair tangled in his sheets, eyes glassy with tears and trust, her voice shaking when she whispered his name like it meant something. Like he meant something.

He unbuttoned his jacket slowly, shrugged it off and tossed it onto the nearest chair with unusual care. His tie followed. He walked toward the bar at the far end of the room his steps measured, mechanical. He selected his usual: a bottle of Oban 21, neat. Poured it. Let the amber swirl.

But he didn't drink it.

He just stood there, fingers curled around the crystal tumbler, watching the city pulse far below him. Watching, but not seeing. His mind was elsewhere. His body, still aching, still restless, remembered everything.

The trembling of her fingers when she took off the white towel. The way her lips parted when he touched her. Her gasp, no, that broken moan—as she took all of him inside her. Brave. Raw. So untrained it undid him.

He set the glass down, untouched.

Kyl never dwelled. Not on sex. Not on women. It was always clean, transactional, rehearsed, controlled. He set the terms, and they obeyed. That was how he liked it.

But Ivana hadn't obeyed.

She cried.

And even though he was prepared to walk away to leave her body and take only the memory those tears broke something open in him.

He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. The soft tick of the clock on the wall marked the seconds as they passed, each one harder to bear.

Why couldn't he forget her?

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He ignored it. Again. Another call from Gerald, his acquisitions director. Or perhaps Lily, his assistant. He hadn't looked. Hadn't cared.

That morning, he'd canceled two meetings, including one with the mayor. Told Lily to reschedule everything. No reason. Just… no.

Kyl Ronald didn't cancel meetings.

And yet, here he was, unshaven, shirt half-buttoned, staring at nothing with a full glass of scotch sweating on the bar.

A knock at the penthouse door cut through the silence like a blade.

He didn't move. He already knew who it was.

The security camera at the front entrance had pinged him three minutes earlier. Damon.

The door opened with a soft chime. Damon stepped inside, as casual as if he owned the place, though Kyl could drop him with a word. Broad-shouldered, rugged, and relaxed in black slacks and a leather jacket, Damon walked in with a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

"You look like shit," he said.

Kyl didn't answer.

Damon eyed the untouched scotch. "What is this? Your post-coital guilt ritual?"

Kyl's jaw ticked. He still didn't speak.

Damon threw himself into an armchair. "I haven't seen you like this since that thing with what's her name—Elodie?"

"She was an escort," Kyl said flatly.

Damon shrugged. "Weren't they all?"

Kyl stood slowly, crossed to the bar, and finally took the drink to his lips. The scotch burned like regret going down. He barely felt it.

"You gonna tell me who she is?"

"No."

"She got a name?"

Kyl stayed quiet.

Damon tilted his head. "Was she that good?"

Kyl's fingers clenched around the tumbler. The answer came unbidden.

"She was… different."

The words tasted foreign in his mouth. Damon picked up on it instantly.

"Shit," he muttered. "You're in trouble."

"I'm not in anything."

"You're obsessed."

"I paid her."

"So? You pay a lot of people. Doesn't mean you think about them three days later."

Kyl turned his back, pacing toward the window. The skyline stared back at him, but none of it soothed him tonight.

"I gave her Fifthy Thousand Dollars . Told her to call my assistant if she wanted more."

"And?"

"She took it."

"But didn't call."

Kyl said nothing.

Damon stood now too, crossing the room slowly. "What did she do, man? Tie you up? Cry? Tell you she loved you?"

Kyl's shoulders went rigid.

"She was a virgin."

The silence between them grew sharp.

Damon let out a low whistle. "That's what this is."

"No," Kyl snapped, but the lie was weak.

"You took a girl's virginity and now you're fucked in the head about it."

"She wasn't just a girl." Kyl's voice was low, intense. "She was… something else. She wasn't ready. She was terrified. But she let me in anyway. She gave me everything."

"And you paid her for it."

Kyl turned sharply. "She wanted the money."

Damon raised both hands. "I'm not judging. I'm just saying, maybe she didn't expect it to feel like that. And maybe you didn't either."

Kyl moved back to the couch, lowered himself into the cushions, but now his pulse was climbing. Faster. Erratic.

"She looked at me like I was a storm," he murmured. "Like she didn't know whether I was going to drown her or save her."

Damon studied him. "So what's your move now?"

Kyl didn't respond right away. His fingers flexed against his knees.

"I told myself it was one night. I told myself she was a curiosity. Something soft to break apart for a few hours."

"And?"

Kyl exhaled through his nose. "She's still under my skin."

Damon crossed to the bar, poured himself a drink, and leaned back against the counter. "So go find her."

"She doesn't want to be found."

"You sure about that?"

Kyl looked down at his phone. It had buzzed again, this time with a text from Lily. He didn't open it.

"Don't romanticize this, Kyl," Damon said after a moment. "You're not built for that shit."

"I know."

"She gave you her virginity. Doesn't mean she gave you her heart."

Kyl nodded once, a tight, bitter motion.

But deep down, he wasn't so sure.

Because that look in her eyes when she cried under him… it felt like more. It felt like something that could ruin him if he let it.

He leaned back against the couch, tilting his head toward the ceiling.

The scent of her still clung to his skin.

And for the first time in years, he didn't want to wash it off.