The evening sun spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Mike’s penthouse, casting a golden glow over the bedroom where Cynthia lay nestled against him.

Her head rested on his chest, her breaths soft and steady—a stark contrast to the chaos of last night’s confrontation with Isla. Mike traced lazy circles on her shoulder, his heart swelling with a warmth he hadn’t known he could feel.

He’d meant every word he’d said to Isla—Cynthia was his choice, his everything. But words weren’t enough. He needed to show her.

“Cynthia,” he murmured, his voice low, stirring her awake.

She blinked up at him, her olive complexion radiant in the soft light. “Hmm?”...