The penthouse door clicked open that night, and Jackson stepped in like a man emerging from a war zone—tie loosened, suit rumpled, eyes shadowed from endless calls to police stations and family lawyers. The merger had ground to a halt without his “fiancée” at his side for photo ops, and the whispers in boardrooms had turned to outright questions. He froze in the foyer, briefcase slipping from his fingers to thump against the marble floor.

Stiles stood in the kitchen—hair tied back, apron on, stirring a pot of soup like nothing had happened. Her dress was modest tonight, but the flush on her cheeks betrayed the fresh ache between her thighs, the ghost of Derek’s cum still leaking faintly into her panties.