"You only call when it’s convenient for you, Reo."

I say it the second I step inside.

His penthouse still smells like that expensive cologne he bathes in—like wood, iron, and power—but all I can think about is that day. That bed. That ache.

Reo stands near the kitchen island. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and his jaw is clenched like he’s chewing on regret. He holds a file and pretends this is business, like we both don’t know exactly what this is.

“You said it was urgent,” I add sharply.

He shrugs, and there’s tension behind the movement. “It is. The legal proposal for the Mothers Initiative...