The city at night never slept, but Killian Wolfe’s apartment sat high above it all, quiet, detached. He liked it that way. Clean lines, dark stone, silence stretching through the rooms like a second skin. It was a place built for forgetting. A place where nothing reached him unless he allowed it to.
And tonight, he couldn’t stop letting her in.
He scrolled through his phone with the slow, unfocused rhythm of someone trying to numb himself. News. Markets. Weather. A text from a broker. Then,
There she was.
Ivy Lancaster.
His chest seized before his mind caught up.
It was a photo. Her smile was demure. Too demure. Her back was straight. Her clothes expensive and soft, cream silk and pearl earrings.
But it was the caption that shattered him.
“Adjusting. Slowly. Grateful.”
He read it again.
And again.
The words were wrong. Ivy didn’t speak like that. Ivy was spitfire and sarcasm. She had once written him an entire paragraph about how “grateful” was the kind of word rich men gave their wiv
