The house was dark when Nathan stepped in. Midnight. The soft clack of his shoes echoed against marble floors, his tie loosened, jacket tossed over one arm. He closed the door quietly, hoping—foolishly—that she was asleep.
She wasn’t.
“Late.”
Simone’s voice floated from the hallway like smoke. Calm. Icy. Her silhouette appeared a moment later—silk robe, bare legs, wine glass in hand. She didn’t look angry. She never did. Anger was too weak. Simone didn’t rage—she ruled.
Nathan stood straighter, throat dry. “Work ran late. I sent a text.”
She stopped a few feet away, wine untouched, gaze sharp. “That’s not what I asked.”
His heart pounded. “Yes. I’m late.”
“Without permission.”
He nodded.
Simone stepped closer. Her fingers dragged down the lapel of his shirt, then circled the spot
