It was never supposed to matter. Rune had sworn that to himself countless times. But how could he explain the ache that coiled in his chest every time he saw her with another man? How could he deny the way his nights felt empty without her, even as his wife, Penelope, lay beside him? And God help him—the tremor that ran through him when her hands slid down his body in the stolen moments of the night.

Tonight, guilt should have consumed him. It tried. Their anniversary celebration was in full swing, Penelope radiant on his arm. But Rune’s gaze betrayed him, drawn irresistibly to her. She was Penelope’s friend, the reason she was even here tonight. Their fathers’ ties to the mafia only made things worse. He knew he should stay away, but the more he resisted, the harder it became. His hand tightened around his champagne glass as he spotted her across the room, laughing softly with another man. Rune’s jaw clenched. He had warned her before—he hated seeing her with anyone else. Her subtle attempts to create distance between herself and the stranger were almost laughable, if his anger didn’t burn so fiercely. She was putting him through hell, and she knew it. Penelope’s hand gripped his arm, a silent reminder to focus on the conversation. Rune forced a smile, his charm practiced and smooth, but his attention flickered back to her as she slipped out onto the balcony. His pulse quickened. He shouldn’t follow her. But he would.

Sliding his hand to Penelope’s waist, he leaned close and whispered, “I’ll be right back.” He ignored her shiver and excused himself, his movements purposeful as he stepped into the cool night air. The city stretched below, glittering under the moonlight. And there she was, her silhouette framed against the railing, the fabric of her dress clinging to her in ways that made his breath hitch. "I see you’ve found a new puppy to play with," he said, his voice smooth but edged with jealousy. He leaned against the railing, his gaze tracing her profile. "What were you talking about?"