Senator Damien Volkov was married. Everyone knew that. What nobody knew was that every Thursday night, he came to the same penthouse apartment. Yours. You never asked him to leave his wife. Never asked for promises. That made it worse. Because somehow, Damien kept coming back. Tonight, rain tapped against the windows as you sat on the kitchen counter scrolling through your phone. The apartment door opened. Damien stepped inside, loosened his tie, and immediately looked exhausted. "You missed dinner," you said. "I was working." "You always are." A faint smile tugged at his lips. Then his eyes landed on the bouquet of flowers sitting beside you. His expression changed instantly. "Who sent those?" You blinked. "A friend." Silence. Dangerous silence. Damien slowly set his keys on the counter. "A friend," he repeated. The way he said it made your stomach drop. Because for a man who had no right to be jealous— He looked furious.