The morning light came through the floor-to-ceiling windows, thin and gold, cutting across the leather sofa where Christian had finally fallen asleep. Jeff stood in the doorway of his bedroom in a pair of boxer briefs, watching the Brit's chest rise and fall, the empty bottle of Macallan on the coffee table catching the sun.

Valentina and Camila were gone. He'd put them in an Uber at four in the morning, slipping each of them five hundred dollars and a promise to call that neither of them believed. Christian had stayed, too drunk to drive, too quiet to talk, and had passed out on the couch without taking off his shoes.

Jeff's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He crossed the marble floor, his bare feet cold against the stone, and picked it up.

Bella.

The name on the screen made something in his chest tighten. He swiped to answer.

"Morning, beautiful."

"You sound awake." Her voice was warm, still thick with sleep. "I was worried you'd forget."

"Forget?" He leaned against the counter, the granite cool against his lower back. "I don't forget anything about you."

A pause. He could hear her smile.

"You promised me today, Jeff. The whole day. No calls, no meetings, no girls in bikinis trying to get your attention."

"I remember." He ran a hand through his hair, sandy blond still damp with last night's sweat. "Two hours. I'll be at your place in two hours."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

"Okay." She breathed out. "I'll be ready."

The line went dead. Jeff stared at the phone for a long moment, then set it down face-up on the counter.

He looked at Christian, still unconscious on the leather. The guilt on that man's face last night had been something Jeff recognized — he'd worn it himself, more times than he could count. The difference was that Christian had someone waiting for him in Fort Lauderdale. Sofia. The girl with the virgin blood and the sad eyes.

Jeff had no one waiting for him. Not really. Bella had come back, but she didn't know about last night. She didn't know about Camila's legs wrapped around his waist, or the way he'd fucked her on the same bed where Bella had slept three weeks ago.

He pushed the thought away and walked to the shower.

The water was scalding, almost painful against his shoulders, and he stood under it with his palms flat against the tile, letting the heat burn the night off his skin. Steam filled the glass enclosure, fogging the mirror, blurring the edges of the penthouse beyond. He could still smell Camila on him if he tried — her perfume, her sweat, the faint musk of her cunt — and he scrubbed harder, as if he could wash the memory down the drain with the soap and the water.

Bella's voice was still in his head. You swear? And he'd said yes. He'd sworn. Two hours, and he'd be at her door, and she'd be ready, and he'd spend the whole day pretending he hadn't spent last night buried inside another woman.

He turned off the water and stood there, dripping, the silence of the bathroom loud in his ears. The towel was thick and white, and he dried himself slowly, deliberately, the way a man does when he's stalling. When he stepped out, the mirror was still fogged, and he wiped a circle clear with his palm and looked at himself.

Same sandy blond hair, damp and pushed back. Same pale blue eyes, a little red at the edges. Same sunburn across his nose, fading now into tan. Same face he'd been looking at for forty-one years.

He didn't know what he was looking for. Some sign that he'd changed. Some mark that said he was different now, that Bella had done something to him that the others hadn't. But it was just his face. Tired. Hungry. Empty.

He dressed in loose linen pants and a white button-down, left it open at the chest, and walked barefoot into the kitchen. Christian was still out cold, one arm dangling off the edge of the leather sofa, his mouth slightly open. The empty Macallan bottle had rolled under the coffee table, and Jeff picked it up, set it on the counter, and pulled open the fridge.

Leftover pasta from three nights ago. A carton of eggs. Some cheese had started to grow something green at the edges. He grabbed the eggs, cracked three into a pan, and let them hiss in the butter while he toasted a piece of sourdough that was still good.

He ate standing at the counter, looking out at the Miami skyline — blue and gold, the ocean glinting in the distance, the city already awake and moving below. Boats cut white lines across the bay. Somewhere out there, Bella was getting ready for him. Putting on that dress she'd mentioned. Making herself beautiful for a day he didn't deserve.

His phone buzzed again. He picked it up, expecting Bella, but it was a text from a number he didn't have saved — a photo of a girl in a bikini, her ass pushed up toward the camera, the caption reading Missing you, daddy. When are you coming back to the beach?

He deleted it without responding and set the phone face-down.

Twenty minutes later, he was in his car — a black Lamborghini Urus, the engine rumbling low and mean — pulling out of the underground garage and heading toward Bella's place in Coconut Grove. The top was down, the Miami sun already hot on his shoulders, and he drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console, his mind blank.

He didn't think about Camila. He didn't think about the foursome, or the way Christian had looked at his phone with Sofia's name on the screen, or the guilt that had settled into the Brit's bones like a sickness. He thought about Bella. The curve of her waist. The way she'd said his name that night on the rooftop, under the string lights, when she'd asked him if he could stop chasing other women. The way she'd left when he couldn't answer.

She'd come back. She'd walked into his penthouse at 2:47 AM and let him claim her, let him say the words. You're mine. And he'd meant it. He'd meant it in the moment, with her body pressed against his, her fingers laced through his, her breath warm on his chest.

But meaning it in the moment and meaning it in the morning were two different things. He'd learned that the hard way, more times than he could count.

The Grove was quiet, the streets lined with banyan trees and pastel-colored buildings, the air thick with humidity and the smell of jasmine. He pulled up outside Bella's apartment — a small two-bedroom on the second floor of a coral-colored building, with a balcony that overlooked the street and a pot of dead herbs on the railing.

He parked, killed the engine, and sat there for a long moment, his hands still on the wheel.

Then he got out, walked up the stairs, and knocked on her door.

It opened before his knuckles had fully fallen.

Bella stood in the doorway, and Jeff's breath caught in his throat.

She was wearing a white sundress, thin straps, the fabric falling just above her knees. Her hair was down, dark and wavy, and her skin was tan and warm, and she was barefoot, her toenails painted a soft pink. She wasn't wearing much makeup — just a little gloss on her lips, a little mascara — and she looked at him with those dark eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"You're early," she said.

"I couldn't wait."

The smile widened. She stepped back, holding the door open, and he walked inside.

Her apartment was small and cluttered in the way that made it feel lived-in — books stacked on the coffee table, a half-empty glass of water on the counter, a throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch. It smelled like vanilla and something floral, and it was so different from his penthouse — so warm, so real — that he felt something crack open in his chest, just a little.

She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, crossing her arms. "So. The whole day. You promised."

"I remember."

"No calls. No meetings."

"I turned my phone off." He held it up, the screen dark. "See? Dead to the world."

She laughed, low and warm, and pushed off the door, walking toward him. She stopped close enough that he could smell her — coconut and vanilla, the same scent he remembered from the rooftop, from the night she'd come back to him. Her hand came up, and she touched his chest, her fingers light on the open collar of his shirt.

"You look tired," she said.

"Didn't sleep much."

"Me neither." Her eyes held his. "I was thinking about you."

The words hit him low in the gut, and he reached out, his hand finding her waist, pulling her closer. She came willingly, her palms flat against his chest, her head tilting back to look up at him.

"I was thinking about you too," he said. "All morning."

"Liar." But she said it softly, without bite. "You probably woke up next to some model and had to kick her out before you came here."

Jeff's stomach turned. He kept his face still, kept the smile in place. "No models. Just me and a bottle of whiskey and a friend who drank too much."

"Christian?"

"Yeah. He crashed on my couch."

She nodded, accepting it, and rose on her toes to kiss him — soft, slow, her lips warm and tasting of something sweet. He kissed her back, his hand sliding into her hair, and for a moment, he let himself forget. Let himself believe that he was the man she thought he was. The man who'd turned off his phone. The man who'd spent the night alone, thinking of her.

She pulled back, her eyes dark, her breath a little uneven. "I made us a plan."

"Yeah?"

"Breakfast on the beach. Then a walk along the boardwalk. Then lunch at that little Cuban place you said you liked. Then maybe a movie, if we're still standing."

"And after the movie?"

Her smile turned sly. "I thought we'd come back here. Or go to your place. See where the night takes us."

He kissed her again, harder this time, and she made a small sound against his mouth, her fingers curling into his shirt. His hands found her ass, pulling her hips against his, and he was already half-hard, the heat of her pressing through the thin fabric of her dress.

"Breakfast first," she murmured against his lips. "Then everything else."

"You're killing me."

"Good." She pulled away, laughing, and grabbed a straw bag from the hook by the door. "Come on. I'm starving."

He followed her out, locking the door behind them, and they walked down the stairs together, her hand in his. The sun was higher now, hotter, and the air smelled like salt and jasmine, and Bella was talking about the bakery she'd found, the one with the guava pastries, and Jeff was nodding, smiling, saying the right things.

But underneath it all, a low hum of guilt buzzed in his chest, steady and insistent, like a fly he couldn't swat away.

She didn't know. She didn't know about Camila, or the foursome, or the way he'd spent the night with another woman's legs wrapped around him while Bella was asleep in her bed, thinking he was thinking of her.

She didn't know. And he wasn't going to tell her.

Not today. Not ever, if he could help it.

They drove to the beach in his Lamborghini, the top down, her hair whipping around her face, her laugh cutting through the wind. She leaned over and rested her hand on his thigh, her fingers light, and he glanced at her and saw her looking at him with something soft in her eyes. Something that looked like trust.

He looked away, focused on the road, and drove.