It was 10:04 PM when he showed up at her door.

His tie hung loose around his neck, shirt wrinkled, hair tousled from running his hands through it one too many times. The rain hadn't started yet, but the air felt thick—like something was about to break.

Henry Russo, the billionaire, the empire builder, the man who could own anything—stood outside her apartment drunk, aching, and undone. A bottle of something expensive clutched in one hand. Her name on the tip of his tongue.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not after the way she left him. Not after five months of lies dressed in silk sheets and kisses that meant nothing to her but everything to him.

“Open the door,” he whispered. A plea.

She hadn’t answered his texts. She hadn’t called. She was supposed to be gone. But something told her—he’d keep showing up like this.

Because Henry Russo wasn’t over her.

He never would be. And despite everything she’d done to him... a part of her still listened for his knock.