MARK

The elevator door to my penthouse slid open with a soft ding, revealing the sprawling luxury of the penthouse at 432 Park Avenue.

I stepped inside, loosening my tie with one hand while tossing my keys onto the marble console table with the other. The silence of the apartment was a blessing after the chaos of the gala.

"God," I breathed out, walking straight to the wet bar. "I love the smell of money."

I didn't bother with a glass. I grabbed the bottle of Macallan 25—Elara’s father’s collection, which I had happily inherited—and took a long swig. The burn down my throat was magnificent. It tasted like victory....