The car ride was silent, except for the rhythmic patter of rain against the windshield. Amara sat rigid, clutching her purse like a lifeline. Ethan drove with his usual precision, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping impatiently against his thigh. Neither spoke, though the air between them crackled with everything unsaid.

When they finally arrived at his penthouse, the city lights glimmered off the wet streets, reflecting against the floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated the suite. The space smelled faintly of cedar and expensive leather. It should have felt comforting, but Amara’s chest constricted the moment she stepped inside.

“You can sit,” Ethan said, finally breaking the silence, his...