Too early to start drinking, though God knew I could use it.
Instead, I headed for the elevator, keeping my pace measured.
Unhurried.
A man with nothing to hide.
The moment the elevator doors closed, I leaned against the wall, exhaling heavily.
For the first time in decades, I felt completely out of my depth.
Unprepared.
A foreign sensation for a man who prided himself on control in all things.
Savannah Blake.
Even her name felt like a reproach now.
The woman who'd responded to my touch with such uninhibited desire, who'd whispered confessions against my skin in the dark, was Miles's ex.
Was she the same woman he'd brought to company events once or twice?
The woman whose marketing expertise he'd praised in countless meetings?
How had I not recognized her?
But I knew the answer.
I'd barely paid attention to Miles's girlfriend—one in a long line of elegant, accomplished women he collected and discarded like trophies.
I'd seen her in passing at one or two company functions, of course, but always briefly, always in the context of being Miles's plus-one.
Never as herself.
Never as the complex, fascinating woman I'd discovered last night.
My suite was exactly as I'd left it earlier—bed neatly made by housekeeping, coffee service arranged on the desk, curtains drawn back to reveal the vineyard view.
I closed the door behind me, finally allowing my carefully constructed facade to crack.
"Fuck," I muttered, loosening my tie with uncharacteristic violence.
I poured coffee from the carafe, not bothering with milk or sugar, and carried the cup to the window.
The vineyard stretched before me, neat rows vanishing into the distance.
A perfect example of control and cultivation—everything my life had been until last night.
One night.
One impulsive decision.
And now this.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I checked it automatically—a text from Ava, my assistant, updating me on tomorrow's meetings. Work. Structure. Normality. I replied with instructions about the Parker contract, then silenced the device.
