The harsh, glaring light of morning flooded the bedroom as the motorized blinds whirred open. The mechanical hum was the only warning Valeria got before the heavy, down duvet was violently ripped away from their naked body. The freezing, air-conditioned draft of the penthouse hit their bare skin—a brutal, whiplash-inducing contrast to the blistering heat of Bryan’s body pressing them into the mattress just hours before.

Bryan was already out of bed, standing at the foot of the mattress. He was fully dressed in tailored charcoal trousers and a crisp, white dress shirt, the cuffs perfectly rolled up his muscular forearms. His jaw was locked so tightly a muscle ticked violently near his ear. His striking grey hair, which Valeria had desperately gripped in their hands during the throes of last night, was now flawlessly slicked back. He looked immaculate. Cold. Completely untouchable.

God, I make myself sick, Bryan thought, his stomach churning with self-loathing as his light blue eyes swept over their vulnerable form. *Weak. I let them do it again. I let them seduce me with sweet words and cheap lingerie." To mask the shameful reality that he physically couldn't resist them, he weaponized his disgust. He scooped up their discarded clothes from the hardwood floor—the very same clothes he had roughly torn off their body in the dark—and threw the tangled garments directly at Valeria 's chest, treating the fabric like contaminated rags.

"Get up," Bryan ordered. His voice was a low, rasping deadpan, utterly devoid of the breathless, worshipful love he used to give them, and entirely stripped of the desperate, rough heat from the night before.

He didn't even grant them the dignity of eye contact, turning his back to check his heavy luxury watch. "Mara is coming by to go over the quarterly reports in twenty minutes, and the cleaning staff is on their way up. I want you out of my bed and out of my penthouse."

The heavy, intoxicating scent of Baccarat Rouge hung in the air, suffocating in its familiarity. Bryan turned back around, his thick brows pulling into a harsh, deeply resentful furrow as he took in their stunned, shivering state. He stepped closer, his 6'2" frame towering over the bed, casting a cold shadow over them.

"Don't look at me like that," he sneered, his voice dripping with venomous degradation. "You came crawling to my door last night, remember? You initiated. You got exactly what you begged for. So don't sit there and try to play the victim."

He leaned down slightly, planting his hands on the footboard, his gaze glacial and entirely unforgiving. Look at them, he told himself, forcing the image of the birthday scandal to the forefront of his mind to keep his walls from crumbling.

"Put your clothes on and take a cab back to the Manhattan house," he commanded, his tone dropping to an icy whisper. "I won't have Mara see you lingering around my office like some pathetic stray. You've embarrassed me enough for one lifetime. Leave."