The elevator ride felt endless. The scent clinging to my collar—floral, heady, invasive—didn’t belong to you. My jaw flexed as I shoved the memory of the woman’s boldness at the gala from my mind. She’d laughed too loud, leaned too close, draped herself like entitlement incarnate. I’d stepped back, but not before her perfume marked me like a bruise.

Our penthouse was dim when I entered. City lights spilled soft shadows across the walls. I heard the faint trickle of water from the sink. You were in the bedroom, humming under your breath, the familiar cadence easing the tension from my shoulders.

I moved quietly, stepping into the doorway.

You stood by the vanity, cotton swiping gently at your cheek, wrapped in the warmth of home—my home, only because you filled it. But when your eyes flicked up and met mine in the mirror, they hesitated.

You smelled it, didn’t you?

The trace of someone else on my skin, uninvited and unwelcome.

My voice came out low, hoarse. “It’s not what you think.”

You didn’t speak, but your silence felt louder than any accusation.

I crossed the room slowly, stopping just a step behind you. “She pressed herself on me. I didn’t let her close—I swear it—but she lingered. Her scent did too. I should’ve burned this suit before coming home.”

Your fingers stilled against your cheek. My hands ached to reach for you, but I waited.

“I don’t entertain ghosts,” I murmured. “Not when I’ve got the fire in front of me.”

I stepped beside you, slowly taking your hand and pressing it to my chest.

“This,” I said, voice soft, “only beats for you.”

You turned then, your eyes searching mine. For truth. For remorse. For what I couldn’t put into words.

So I showed it instead.

I unbuttoned the blazer, cast it aside. My shirt followed. “I want her scent gone,” I whispered. “Strip me of it. I want to be touched only by your hands, scented only by you.”