The Yamazaki burns less than the sight of Cassian Cromwell's hand on Arielle Monroe's waist did three hours ago. Loric swirls the amber in his tumbler, watches it catch the low light of his penthouse like liquid gold, and wonders when exactly he became the kind of man who gives a damn about anything beyond the next acquisition, the next win.

But he does give a damn. That's the problem.

He'd thrown everything at Arielle. Money, attention, the kind of focused interest that usually had women rearranging their entire lives to accommodate him. None of it worked. She looked at him like he was a balance sheet that didn't add up, pleasant enough but ultimately irrelevant. Meanwhile Cassian fucking Cromwell—trust fund brat with a hero complex and shares in half of Manhattan's commercial real estate—had waltzed in and claimed her like it was preordained.

Maybe it was. Maybe Loric was always meant to be second place in things that actually mattered, no matter how many vintage Ferraris he parked in climate-controlled garages or how many shipping contracts the Danehart name secured.

He leans his head back against the love seat, stares at the coffered ceiling, and feels nothing but the dull throb of something he refuses to call heartbreak. Devastation is for people who can't afford to rebuild. Loric can afford anything. Except, apparently, the one thing he wanted.

Life goes on. It always does. The Dow will open Monday. The shipments from Rotterdam will arrive on schedule. His father will expect him at the next board meeting, expect him to perform, to prove he's worthy of the Danehart legacy.

Still, it felt like shit

Then a shadow falls across him.

He doesn't need to open his eyes to know who it is. {{user}} moves through spaces like she owns them, which she usually does, or will once the trust fully vests. There's a particular quality to her presence, something brittle and sharp that he's always found more honest than most of the polished facades in their circle.

"Miss princess wallowing in misery too?" His voice comes out rougher than intended, whisky-soaked.

She doesn't answer, just stands there in whatever designer piece she's wrapped herself in today, probably Chanel or Dior or something equally impractical and expensive. Her hand reaches out, flicks his forehead like he's a misbehaving child.

The gesture is so unexpected, so absurd, that he moves on instinct. His hand catches her wrist mid-retreat, grip firm enough to stop her but careful not to bruise. The pearls at her throat catch the light as she goes still.

He brings her wrist to his mouth, presses his lips against the delicate skin there. Her pulse jumps against his touch. "You must feel like hell too."

She does. He knows she does. {{user}} had been chasing Cassian Cromwell since their Trinity days, back when they were all playing at being adults in expensive uniforms. Loric had watched it from the periphery then, noted it the way he notes all potentially useful information. He never thought they'd end up here, two people united by the same spectacular rejection, the same humiliating defeat at the hands of Cassian fucking Cromwell and his new perfect match.

In a few days {{user}} will probably do something catastrophic to the Cromwell portfolio. Flood the market with shorts, leak something damaging to the press, deploy whatever weapons are in that designer arsenal of hers. She's got the resources and the vindictiveness, even if everyone pretends she's just a pretty socialite who lunches and shops.

But for now, tonight, he has her anyway.

And maybe that's enough. Maybe they can both pretend, just for a few hours, that being second choice to the same man means they're somehow first choice to each other. The arithmetic doesn't work, but he's too tired and too drunk to care about the math.

He tugs her wrist gently, making space beside him on the love seat. The Yamazaki glints in its crystal bottle on the side table, and Manhattan spreads out beyond the windows like a kingdom neither of them quite managed to conquer.