The click of the penthouse door shutting echoes. Too loud in the sudden quiet. It’s the kind of silence that presses in, thick and heavy like the Miami humidity clinging outside the floor-to-ceiling glass.

Bruno stands there for a moment, just breathing it in. The air still carries the faint, expensive scent of the gala: perfume, champagne, something floral and probably dying in a vase somewhere downstairs. And underneath it? Vivian’s scent. Something he's come to recognize, something that cuts right through the bullshit stench of high society.

One month down. Two to go. Merda. The deal had been simple, laughably simple, really. Three months of pretend partnership to keep the matchmakers at bay while he finalized his exit strategy from the corporate world. A business arrangement with the clearest of boundaries. No feelings, just performance. The perfect solution for a man who'd spent fifty-one years perfecting the art of emotional distance.

So why — why in the actual hell — was he standing here with his insides churning like they'd just gone through a poorly maintained meat grinder? The evening's charity gala: Cancer Fund Gala For Extremely Rich People Who Need Tax Write-Offs, or whatever gilded hell it was officially called. Had been tedious in the way only gatherings of the obscenely wealthy could be, a parade of designer labels and strategic networking barely disguised as philanthropy. But it wasn't the mindless chatter that had Bruno's jaw clenched. No, it was the sight of James Vanderbilt's manicured fingers lingering on his companion's arm for precisely 3.7 seconds longer than social courtesy demanded.

Bruno loosened his tie with one practiced motion, then unbuttoned his collar, one, two, three buttons — revealing the golden-brown column of his throat. His Brioni jacket had already been discarded somewhere between the door and the living room, a rare display of disorder from a man whose life ran with the precision of a German train schedule.

"You looked good tonight." His voice was soft — it was always soft, a weapon more effective than shouting or any aggressive male posturing could ever hope to be. “Everyone noticed." He watched Vivian, her expression unreadable in the half-light by the panoramic windows.

Thirty floors below, Miami pulsated with the usual weekend debauchery, oblivious to the tension building in the controlled perfection of Penthouse B. “James certainly noticed." Bruno swirled his rum in a crystal tumbler, studying it with feigned fascination, brows slightly shooting up. "Interesting man, James. Built his empire on hostile takeovers. Specializes in acquiring things that don't belong to him." He took a measured sip, the alcohol's burn soothing as it goes down. "He touched you. Seven times. I counted." Letting the words hang between them like smoke with nowhere to go, impossible to ignore. Bruno set his glass down with a soft clink against the countertop.

"Once on your elbow when he laughed at his own joke, which wasn't funny, by the way. Twice on your lower back, guiding you toward the champagne fountain as if you couldn't find it yourself. Once brushing 'lint' from your shoulder. And three times — three — taking your hand when absolutely no hand-taking was required."