Sofia didn't speak. Her back was to him, one hand on the doorframe, the other clutching her phone so hard the screen's glow bled between her fingers. The rain had soaked the shoulders of her thin jacket, darkening the fabric to the color of bruises. She stood there a beat too long, and Christian knew she was waiting for him to say something that would make it better.

He didn't have it. The words sat in his throat like stones.

"Sofia."

She flinched. Actually flinched, her shoulders drawing up tight, and that small motion cut him deeper than any slap could have. He'd seen her angry before—furious, tear-streaked, ready to walk out his door with her pride in tatters. This was different. This was a quiet he didn't recognize, a stillness that had nothing to do with calm.

He reached for her arm. She stepped sideways, out of his reach, and the rain caught her full in the face. She didn't wipe it away.

"You told her about me." Her voice came out flat, almost conversational. "You told her I was yours. You told her you were mine." A pause, and then she turned. Her eyes were dry. That was the worst part. "But you never told me about her."

The bass from inside the club thumped through the open door, a heartbeat that belonged to someone else's night. Christian stood in the spill of light and rain, his shirt dampening at the shoulders, and for once in his life he had nothing to say. No dry quip. No deflection. Just the truth, and the truth was a hole he'd dug one careful lie at a time.

"I was going to tell you."

"When?" She held up the phone, the screen still glowing. He could see the message now, the sender's name in bold letters. *Layla.* "After you fucked her? Or after you came home to me and pretended it never happened?"

"There's nothing to pretend. It was—" He stopped. *A mistake* was the easy word. *A goodbye* was closer, but it still tasted like an excuse. "It was before you. Before everything."

"Before me." She laughed, a short, hollow sound. "You were in Dubai. You met her at a party. You had a foursome. And then you came back to Miami and told me I was yours." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she bit her lip, hard, as if she could force the weakness back down. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think I'd never check your phone?"

Christian's jaw tightened. "I didn't think you'd need to."

"I didn't think I'd need to either." She looked down at the phone in her hand, at Layla's message—*I can't forget you*—and something in her face shifted. Not anger. Something worse. A hollow certainty that made his chest go cold. "She's still in love with you. And you never even told me she existed."

The rain picked up, drumming on the awning overhead. A car passed on the street, its tires hissing through the wet. Christian stood motionless, the water soaking through his shirt, and he felt the distance between them like a physical thing—a widening gap he couldn't cross because he didn't deserve to.

"I didn't tell you because I didn't want to lose you."

"You didn't want to lose me, so you lied." She shook her head slowly. "Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how that sounds?"

"I hear it." His voice was rough, stripped of its usual polish. "And I know it's not enough. I know sorry isn't enough. But I'm telling you now. I'm telling you everything."

"Everything?" Her eyes met his, and there was something in them he couldn't read. "There's more?"

He hesitated. The rain filled the silence, and in that hesitation he saw her face close like a door. "No. That's it. That's all."

"You hesitated."

"Because I'm trying to find the right words."

"There are no right words." She stepped back, out from under the awning, into the full weight of the rain. It plastered her hair to her skull, ran in rivulets down her cheeks, but she didn't seem to notice. "You told her about me. You told her I was yours. And she's still out there, halfway around the world, holding onto the hope that you'll come back." She held up the phone again. "That's not nothing, Christian. That's not a mistake. That's a woman who loves you."

The word hit him like a fist. *Love.* Layla had never said it. He'd never said it to her. But the message on the screen said it for both of them.

"I don't love her."

"Maybe not. But you let her love you." Sofia's voice broke on the last word, and she wiped at her face—rain or tears, he couldn't tell. "You let her think she meant something. You let her believe that night meant something. And then you came home to me."

"Because you're the one I want."

"You don't get to say that." Her voice rose, sharp and sudden, cutting through the rain. "You don't get to stand there and tell me I'm the one you want when you couldn't even tell me the truth. You made me believe I was yours, Christian. You made me believe we were building something real. And all along, there was her."

He stepped toward her, and this time she didn't move. She stood in the rain, her shoulders shaking, her hands clenched at her sides, and let him come close enough to see the tears she'd been trying to hide.

"I'm sorry." The words felt small, useless, but he said them anyway. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm sorry I let it go as far as it did. I'm sorry I made you feel like you weren't enough." He reached for her hand, and she let him take it. Her fingers were cold, trembling. "You are enough. You've always been enough. I was just too much of a coward to see it."

She looked at him, her eyes searching his face for something—a lie, a crack, a reason to walk away. He held her gaze, letting her see everything he had: the shame, the want, the fear, the desperate, clumsy hope that she might still stay.

"I don't know if I can trust you." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I don't know if I can believe anything you say."

"I know." He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her knuckles, tasting rain and salt. "But I'm asking you to try. I'm asking you to let me earn it back."

She pulled her hand away. Not roughly, not angry—just gentle, a letting go that was somehow worse than a slap. "You should go back inside. You're getting soaked."

"Sofia—"

"I need to think." She looked past him, at the warm light spilling from the club, at the silhouettes moving behind the glass. "I need to be alone for a while. I need to figure out if this is something I can live with."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to follow her into the rain, to make her see that he meant it, that she was the only one he wanted. But he'd done enough damage tonight. He'd done enough damage for a lifetime.

"Okay." He let his hand fall. "Okay. I'll wait."

She nodded, a small, jerky motion, and then she turned and walked away. He watched her go, her silhouette shrinking in the rain, until she reached the corner and disappeared from sight.

The phone was still in his hand. He didn't remember taking it from her. He looked down at the screen, at Layla's message glowing in the dark—*I can't forget you*—and he felt the weight of it settle in his chest like a stone.

He should delete it. He should block her number, sell the apartment in Dubai, burn every bridge that led back to that night. But his thumb hovered over the screen, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't make himself erase the proof of what he'd done.

Because that was the truth, wasn't it? He'd told Sofia he didn't love Layla. And he didn't. But he'd let Layla love him, let her believe she meant something, let her hold onto a hope he'd never intended to fulfill. That was its own kind of cruelty. That was a lie he'd told with his silence, his body, his willingness to let her want him.

He stood in the doorway of Jeff's Place, rain soaking through his shirt, and he felt the weight of every woman he'd ever let down settle onto his shoulders. Sofia. Layla. All the ones before them, the ones whose names he'd forgotten, the ones he'd used and discarded like they were nothing.

He was forty years old. He had money, looks, a cock that made women moan his name in five languages. And he was standing in the rain, alone, holding a phone that proved he didn't deserve any of it.

Jeff appeared in the doorway behind him, silhouetted against the warm light of the club. "Thought you were coming back in."

Christian didn't turn around. "Change of plans."

Jeff stepped out onto the sidewalk, squinting through the rain. "She gone?"

"Yeah."

"You gonna go after her?"

Christian looked down at the phone in his hand. The screen had gone dark, but he could still see the words burned into his memory. *I can't forget you.*

"No," he said quietly. "I think I've done enough damage for one night."

Jeff was quiet for a moment, then he clapped a hand on Christian's shoulder. "Come on. I've got a bottle of Macallan upstairs that's been calling my name."

Christian shook his head. "I'm not in the mood to drink."

"Then come up and watch me drink. You don't have to be alone."

Christian finally turned, and something in his face must have given him away, because Jeff's expression softened. "It's bad, huh?"

"It's bad."

"The girl, or the other girl?"

"Both." Christian pocketed the phone. "I told Sofia about Layla. She walked out into the rain."

Jeff winced. "Shit."

"Yeah."

They stood in the doorway for a long moment, the rain hissing on the pavement, the bass thumping inside. Then Jeff stepped aside and gestured toward the stairs.

"Come on. You can stare at the ceiling in my living room instead of the street. It's marginally more comfortable."

Christian almost smiled. Almost. "Fine."

He followed Jeff up the stairs, leaving the rain and the empty street behind. But he didn't look back. He couldn't. Because if he looked back, he'd see the exact spot where Sofia had stood, the exact place where she'd told him she didn't know if she could trust him, and he'd want to run after her again.

And he didn't trust himself not to.

Upstairs, Jeff poured two glasses of Macallan without asking. Christian took his, held it without drinking, watched the amber liquid catch the light. The penthouse was quiet, the city glowing beyond the windows, and for a moment he let himself pretend he was somewhere else. Somewhere simpler. Somewhere he hadn't hurt anyone.

"You're gonna figure it out." Jeff settled into the leather chair across from him, his glass cradled in his broad hands. "You always do."

"Do I?" Christian finally took a sip, felt the burn slide down his throat. "I've spent twenty years running from this exact moment. And here it is. Caught up with me."

"What, a woman finding out you're a lying piece of shit?" Jeff laughed, but it was hollow. "Welcome to the club."

Christian looked at him. "Bella?"

Jeff's smile faded. "She knows about Lena. She knows about everything. She walked out the door, and I stopped her, and I told her I'd change." He shook his head. "And I don't know if I can."

They sat in silence, two aging fuckboys with their drinks and their regrets, the city sprawling below them like a monument to every mistake they'd ever made.

"You think we'll ever get it right?" Christian asked.

Jeff swirled his whiskey. "I don't know." He looked at Christian, his pale blue eyes tired in the lamplight. "But I know I'm tired of getting it wrong."

Christian nodded. He set down his glass, untouched, and pulled out his phone. The screen was dark, but he could feel the weight of Layla's message still burning in the memory of his thumb.

He opened the thread. Read the words again. *I can't forget you.*

And then he typed a reply, his fingers moving before his mind could stop them.

*I'm sorry. I should have been honest with you. I'm not coming back.*

He hit send before he could change his mind. Then he turned off his phone, set it face-down on the table, and picked up his glass.

"One more," he said. "Then I'm going home."

Jeff raised his glass, and they drank in silence, the rain still falling beyond the windows, the city still glowing, the night still full of everything they hadn't said.