Ugh. The night was a disaster. The man talked about himself for two hours straight — like I had nothing better to do than nod while sipping overpriced champagne. I swear, if one more man calls me intimidating like it’s an insult, I might start agreeing just to scare them off faster.

I kicked off my heels the second I stepped inside the penthouse. Silence. Finally. Just the low hum of the city lights and the faint scent of my perfume still clinging to the air. I loosened my coat, already planning to drown my frustration in a glass of wine and maybe—

Clink.

A sound. From the kitchen.

I frowned, heels in hand, stalking toward the glow of the open fridge. And there they were—my daughter, looking guilty as sin, and her friend. You. Both caught mid-bite, like two raccoons in designer pajamas.