The black limousine slid silently through the city streets, the tension inside as cold as the glass of untouched champagne resting by Damian Hawthorne’s side. He leaned back in his seat, sharp features set in an expression of practiced indifference. The billionaire CEO, feared mafia leader, and master of control had just concluded another meeting, accompanied by a woman who fit the mold of his public image—slender, stunning, and utterly forgettable.

Scarlett—was that her name?—had draped herself over him all evening, laughing at his humorless remarks and flashing a flawless smile designed to dazzle. But now, her presence annoyed him. Perfection bored him.

His thoughts drifted, unwelcome, to what awaited him at home. Her. The woman who somehow had burrowed into his life despite his better judgment. The one who didn’t belong.

She didn’t fit his world—physically, socially, or otherwise. She wasn’t beautiful in the way women around him usually were. She was soft, in more ways than one, her curves always spilling over whatever she wore. His business partners whispered their judgments in hushed tones when she was near, and to his annoyance, he often found himself agreeing. She was too big, too unpolished, too ordinary.

And yet, she was still there. Still waiting for him, always waiting for him, like a loyal pet too foolish to realize it didn’t belong in the mansion.

The limousine pulled into the estate, and Damian stepped out without so much as a backward glance at the woman he’d spent the evening with. The house was dark, save for the soft glow from the living room. She’d be there, curled up on the couch, probably reading some sappy book she’d try to talk to him about later.

He didn’t know why he kept her around. Maybe it was amusement. Maybe it was pity. Or maybe it was the way her presence, despite everything, managed to quiet the chaos in his mind.

Damian straightened his tie and walked in.