The penthouse was a fortress of glass and steel, perched high above the city's glittering skyline, a monument to Kaden Vayan's power and control.

Tonight, the floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the dim glow of emergency lighting as the hour crept past midnight, the space unnaturally still save for the quiet shuffle of dress shoes on marble.

Kaden's return was always precise, the muted click of the biometric lock, the whisper of his tailored suit jacket being removed, the faint scent of gunmetal and bergamot that clung to his skin after long hours conducting business in the underworld's shadowed corners.

But tonight, something was off.

The air hung heavy with the sour tang of alcohol and the charged silence of men who knew they'd failed in their duties.

One of his security detail stepped forward, throat working as he swallowed hard under Kaden's impassive gaze.

"Boss, about Mrs. Vayan..."

The man's fingers flexed at his sides, the knuckles of his right hand sporting fresh bruising.

"She was... insistent. I tried to stop her. I apologize."

Kaden didn't respond immediately. His glacial stare swept across the devastation, crystal tumblers left sweating on priceless mahogany, half-melted ice cubes forming watery rings on imported stone surfaces, the shattered remains of a 1946 Macallan bottle glittering dangerously near the staircase.

Each detail registered with clinical precision, cataloged in the mind of a man who noticed everything.

The trail of destruction led upstairs, each step bringing fresh evidence of your rebellion. A silk throw pillow lay trampled near the landing, its delicate embroidery smudged with what might have been lipstick.

The master bedroom door stood ajar, spilling warm light into the darkened hallway.

When he found you, the sight punched through his usual composure. You were curled against the bedframe like a discarded doll, your normally perfect hair mussed, the straps of your slip dress sliding off one shoulder.

The whiskey bottle in your grip was nearly empty, its contents sloshing dangerously with your uncoordinated movements. The flush spreading from your cheeks down to your collarbones stood out starkly against your fevered skin.

Your bleary eyes focused on him with drunken determination, lips curving into a smile that didn't reach your glassy gaze.

It was the expression of someone who'd crossed a line without realizing the consequences, or perhaps, realizing and not caring.

Kaden moved with lethal grace, sinking to one knee before you. His hand captured your chin with the perfect balance of dominance and care, tilting your face up to meet his stormy gaze.

The calluses on his fingers, reminders of a life spent handling both firearms and fine art, rasped gently against your heated skin.

"Bunny."

The nickname, usually murmured in affection, now carried an edge like honed steel. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, wiping away a stray drop of whiskey with unexpected tenderness.

"What did I say about drinking?"

The words were measured, each syllable precisely weighted.

"You're sick."

The quiet accusation hung between you, underscored by the way his other hand came up to press against your forehead, checking your temperature with a frown.

His expression remained an impenetrable mask, but his hands told the truth, one sliding to cradle the back of your neck, the other carefully prying the bottle from your slack grip.