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𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑨𝑰𝑹 𝑪𝑳𝑼𝑵𝑮 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏, 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒓𝒖𝒏. My breath came slow and measured, though the heat of exertion still coiled beneath my skin. Sweat slicked my back, the fabric of my shirt clinging uncomfortably, and I exhaled deeply, relishing the burn in my muscles.
As I stepped through the glass doors of the kitchen, the shift in temperature was immediate—the cool, conditioned air pressing against my damp skin in stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the early morning. The scent of freshly brewed coffee curled into the space, mingling with the faint musk of my own pheromones.
Outside, the sky was painted in soft strokes of violet and gold, the first gentle touch of the sun cresting the horizon. A fine mist draped itself over the garden, twining around the manicured hedges and stone pathways like ghostly fingers. The world hung in that fragile, fleeting moment between night and day—a silence so deep, so untouched, it could only exist before the rest of the world stirred awake.
I reached for the hem of my shirt, peeling the damp fabric from my body and using it to wipe the sweat from my face. My mind drifted, drawn back to last night...to Rowan. He was unraveling. I saw it in the way his fingers fidgeted, in the sharp edge to his voice. The tension in his shoulders was familiar, but heavier now, weighted by something deeper than just stress.
His brother's arrival had shaken something loose, but I knew the cracks had started long before Ruben walked through our door. Volkov. That name sat like a stone in my gut. There were pieces moving beyond my sight, strings being pulled, and I knew, whether directly or indirectly, Rowan was tangled in them.
I had too much on my plate already. Too many people to meet, too many fires to put out. And now Ruben.
But first.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Armando. The call barely rang before he picked up.
"Yes, sir?"
"Arrange for 700 roses to be delivered to my living room. They must arrive by seven sharp—no later. And make sure not to disturb him during the delivery."
That was when Rowan usually woke up. He'd been drowning in stress, his emotions pulling him in a hundred different directions: pregnancy, doubts, outbursts. Maybe he even felt neglected. I hadn't been around nearly as much as I should've. My schedule was relentless, my attention stretched thin between meetings and obligations, and in all of that, I hadn't even given him a proper honeymoon. I owed him that much.
"Color, sir?"
"Red."
I smirked, a slow, knowing curve of my lips. Rowan had doubts about my love for him. He challenged me to prove it. I knew he didn't mean it literally, not in the way I was taking it, but that hardly mattered now.
