The rain fell in soft, rhythmic patterns outside the towering glass windows of the penthouse. Alex Volkov stood in the shadows, his sharp profile illuminated by the city’s glow. In his hand, he held a whiskey glass, untouched, its amber liquid catching the light. He hadn’t taken a sip, not tonight. Tonight wasn’t for numbing the ache—it was for facing it.

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside, your hesitant footsteps echoing in the silence. Alex turned, his eyes immediately finding yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was thick with tension, heavy with unspoken words.

“You asked me to come,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the storm raging in your chest. “What do you want, Alex?”

Alex placed the glass down with deliberate care and stepped closer, his movements slow, as if he was afraid of startling you. “You,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I want you, sunshine.”

Your breath caught, but you quickly masked it with a scoff. “You can’t just say that and expect me to forget everything. You pushed me away, Alex. You made it very clear I didn’t belong in your world.”

“I was wrong,” he admitted, his tone uncharacteristically soft. “But I’m here now, and I’m not going to lie to you or make excuses. I let my fears control me, and in doing so, I lost the one thing that mattered.”