Christian leaned against the marble island, a glass of scotch catching the amber glow of the dimmed penthouse lights. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed him nothing but his own reflection — lean, dark-haired, wolfish — and beyond it, the restless Atlantic dissolving into night. He'd sent the housekeeper home at six. Told his assistant to cancel tomorrow's breakfast meeting. The apartment was clean, cold, and waiting.

He checked his phone. No messages from Jeff, which meant Jeff was still somewhere in the spiral Bella had left him in. Christian had texted him an hour ago — You alive? — and gotten nothing back. He didn't push. They both knew how this worked. Some nights you wanted company. Some nights, you wanted to sit alone and feel the emptiness until it got boring enough to sleep.

Tonight, Christian wanted noise.

The doorbell chimed at exactly nine-thirty. He set down his glass, crossed the marble floor in bare feet — suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, shirt untucked — and pulled open the door.

Two blondes. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Both in tight dresses that ended high on the thigh, both with the glossy, rehearsed smiles of girls who'd learned young that being pretty opened doors. The taller one had a mole above her lip; the shorter one had dimples and a hand already reaching out to touch his chest.

"Mr. Reynolds," she said. "I'm Amber. This is Chloe."

"Christian," he said, stepping back. "Come in."

They moved past him in a cloud of perfume — something floral, something vanilla, the unmistakable scent of hair products and the faint heat of Miami night on bare skin. He watched them take in the penthouse: the glass wall, the leather sofas, the kitchen that cost more than their shared apartment. The tall one — Chloe — let out a low whistle.

"Holy shit."

"That's usually the reaction." Christian closed the door and walked past them toward the bar. "Drinks?"

Amber was already settling onto the curved leather sofa, crossing her legs, letting the dress ride higher. "Surprise us."

He made them something sweet — vodka, cranberry, a splash of lime — and poured himself another scotch. When he turned back, they'd arranged themselves on the sofa like a spread in a magazine: Amber lounging, Chloe perched on the arm, both watching him with the focused attention of girls who knew exactly why they were here.

Christian handed them their glasses and sank into the armchair across from them, letting the silence stretch. He wasn't in the mood to rush. Rushing was for the girls who asked how much he'd pay. These two hadn't asked. They'd come recommended by a producer who owed him a favor, and they'd said yes before he'd finished the sentence: I want company tonight—both of you.

"So," Amber said, sipping her drink, "you're the British guy who runs half the shows."

"A third, maybe."

"And the other two-thirds?"

"A guy named Wulkan. You might know him."

Chloe snorted. "The one who bangs everyone at the after-parties?"

"That's the one." Christian took a long pull of scotch. "He's having a rough week."

"And you?" Amber set her glass on the side table, uncrossed and recrossed her legs, the movement slow, deliberate. "You having a rough week too?"

Christian studied her. The mole above her lip was darker than he'd first thought, almost black against her skin. She had a confidence he liked — the kind that came from being told she was beautiful since she was fifteen and learning to weaponize it.

"I'm having a boring week," he said. "Boredom might be worse."

Chloe slid off the arm of the sofa and walked to the sound system, her fingers trailing across the leather, the glass, the edge of the bar. She found his phone connected to the speakers and scrolled through his playlist without asking. A moment later, something slow and heavy pulsed through the room — bass you felt in your ribs, a woman's voice singing in Spanish.

She turned back to him, holding his gaze, and began to move.

Not a dance, not yet. Just a sway, hips shifting under the thin fabric of her dress, her hands rising to slide through her hair. Amber rose from the sofa and joined her, the two of them finding the rhythm together, bodies aligned, eyes locked on him.

Christian leaned back in his chair and watched.

The lap dance wasn't a performance. It was a collaboration. Amber took his hands and pulled him to his feet, guiding him to the center of the room where the marble was cool under his soles. Chloe pressed against his back, her breasts warm through his shirt, her hands sliding around his waist to unbuckle his belt. Amber knelt in front of him, looking up through her lashes as her fingers found his zipper.

He let them undress him. Piece by piece. Shirt unbuttoned, pulled from his shoulders. Belt undone, trousers pooling at his ankles. Chloe's mouth found his neck, her tongue tracing the line of his jaw, while Amber's hands ran up his thighs, nails grazing the sensitive skin, leaving trails that tingled.

When he was naked, they didn't touch him where he wanted. Not yet. Instead, they danced — bodies pressing and retreating, heat and space, the promise of contact held just out of reach. Amber turned around, bent over, and the dress rode up to reveal the curve of her ass in a black thong. Christian's hand came down on it, not hard, a flat palm that made her gasp, and she pushed back into him.

He bent, pressed his face into the cleft of her ass through the thin fabric, and inhaled—perfume, skin, the faint musk of arousal. Chloe watched from the side, hand sliding down her own body, her lips parted.

"You like that?" Chloe's voice was low, rough.

Christian didn't answer. He hooked his fingers under the thong, pulled it aside, and pressed his mouth to Amber's asshole. She gasped, braced herself on the leather sofa, and he licked — slow, deliberate, tasting the salt of her skin, the heat of her. She moaned, and behind him, Chloe's hand found his cock, stroking him as he worked.

He straightened, turned, and pushed Chloe onto the sofa. Her dress came off in one pull, then her bra, her breasts spilling free, nipples hard. He knelt between her legs, spread her thighs, and pressed two fingers inside her without preamble. She was wet, slick, her cunt gripping him as he curled his fingers, finding the spot that made her arch her back and cry out.

Amber was behind him now, her mouth on his ass, tongue tracing the same path he'd just given her. Christian groaned, his fingers still working Chloe, his head dropping forward as Amber's tongue pressed deeper, circled, and teased. He let himself feel it — the heat of both of them, the weight of two bodies wanting him, the familiar rush of being the center of someone's attention.

When he couldn't take any more, he pulled his fingers from Chloe, turned, and guided Amber to her knees. She opened her mouth, and he fed his cock into it — slowly, letting her feel the stretch, the length, the weight. She took it like she'd been practicing, her throat relaxing as he pushed deeper, her hands gripping his thighs, her eyes watering but refusing to close.

Chloe pressed against his back, her breasts flattening against his skin, her hand reaching around to cradle his balls as Amber sucked him. Her mouth was hot, wet, relentless, and he had to grip her hair and pull her off before he came.

"Not yet," he said, his voice rough. "Bedroom."

They moved together, a tangle of limbs and breath, across the marble floor to his bedroom. The king-sized bed swallowed them, white sheets cool against heated skin. He lay them side by side — Amber on her back, Chloe on her stomach — and took his time between them, kissing, tasting, fingering, building them both up until they were whimpering, slick, trembling.

He fucked Amber first, her legs hooked over his shoulders, her heels digging into his back as he drove into her. She was tight, hot, her cunt gripping him with every thrust. He watched his cock disappear into her, watched the way her body accepted him, and when he came, he pulled out and spilled across her stomach, his cum hot and thick on her skin.

Chloe was next, on her hands and knees, her face buried in the pillows as he entered her from behind. He went slow at first, savoring the view — the curve of her spine, the dip of her lower back, the way her ass swallowed him. She pushed back against him, matching his rhythm, her moans muffled by the pillow. He reached around and found her clit, pinched it between his fingers, and she came with a shuddering cry, her cunt clenching around him.

He stayed inside her through the aftershocks, then pulled out and let himself collapse onto the bed beside them. His chest was heaving, sweat cooling on his skin. Chloe rolled onto her side, her hand finding his chest, tracing lazy circles. Amber pressed a kiss to his shoulder and whispered something he didn't catch.

For a long moment, there was only breathing and the distant hum of the city far below.

Christian pushed himself up, swung his legs off the bed, and walked to the bathroom. He ran the tap, splashed water on his face, and looked at himself in the mirror. Same eyes. Same salt-and-pepper beard. Same scar through his eyebrow. He dried his hands and walked back to the bedroom.

The door was ajar. He heard their voices — low, private, the kind of talk girls have when they think the man is out of earshot.

"—heard she just disappeared. Like, poof. No one's seen her since the after-party."

"For real? She didn't even text her friends?"

"She doesn't have friends. You met her. She was weird. Kept to herself."

Christian's hand stopped on the doorframe.

"I heard she lost it that night. Like, her actual virginity. Can you imagine? At nineteen?"

"Who to?"

"I don't know. Some rich guy at the party. The producer was pissed, said she was supposed to walk the next morning, and she just ghosted."

A pause. Then Amber's voice, quieter: "What was her name again?"

"Sofia," Chloe said. "Weird name. Pretty girl, though."

Christian pushed the door open.

Both girls looked up, eyes wide, caught. Amber pulled the sheet to her chest. Chloe's hand stopped mid-gesture.

Christian didn't walk to the bed. He stood in the doorway, naked, still damp from the bathroom, his eyes fixed on Chloe. "Say that name again."

She blinked. "What?"

"The name. Say it."

"Sofia." Her voice was smaller now, uncertain. "Sofia Reyes. She was in the show. Why?"

Christian crossed the room in four steps and sat on the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, bringing him close to her. Amber pulled the sheet higher. Chloe's hand went still.

"Tell me everything you know about her."

Chloe glanced at Amber, then back at him. "I — I don't know much. She was only in Miami for the show. She lived in Fort Lauderdale, I think? With her aunt."

"Where in Fort Lauderdale?"

"I don't know the address. She mentioned a neighborhood once. Wilton Manors? Something like that."

Christian's jaw tightened. "What else?"

"She worked at a coffee shop before the show. Something on Las Olas — I remember she said she hated the early shifts. She wanted to model full-time."

"What coffee shop?"

Chloe shook her head. "I don't— I don't remember. I'm sorry."

Christian stood and paced to the window. The Atlantic was black, the horizon line invisible, nothing but dark water meeting dark sky. He pressed his palm to the cool glass.

"Describe her," he said. "Everything you remember."

Amber spoke up, her voice tentative. "She was small. Shy. Big brown eyes. She had this way of looking at you like you were going to hurt her." She paused. "Long black hair. A mole on her cheek, right here." She touched her own face, just below the eye.

Christian turned. That matched. The girl in his bed, three weeks ago, who'd looked at him with those same eyes before she'd let him inside her. Who'd bled. Who'd disappeared while he was in the bathroom.

"You said she doesn't have friends. Who did she talk to at the show?"

"No one, really. She kept to herself. I think she was intimidated. First show, you know? All those experienced girls." Amber's voice softened. "Why are you asking about her?"

Christian didn't answer. He walked to the nightstand, picked up his phone, and made a note. Sofia Reyes. Wilton Manors? Las Olas coffee shop. Mole under left eye.

Then he turned back to the girls, still tangled in his sheets, watching him with confusion and something like fear.

"I need to find her," he said. "That's all."

Amber's brow furrowed. "Why?"

Christian looked at her, and for the first time all night, something in his face softened. A crack in the wolfish mask, a glimpse of the man underneath.

"Because I've been looking for her for three weeks, and I thought I'd never see her again."

Chloe's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "You're the guy."

He didn't confirm it. He didn't need to.

Amber looked at Chloe, then back at him. "Her aunt's name is Maria. I remember because Sofia talked about her once, saying her aunt worked at a hospital. Broward Health, I think."

Christian typed it. Aunt Maria. Broward Health.

He looked at his phone, at the three lines of text that meant more than any five-figure deal he'd closed this quarter. Then he looked up, and for the first time in weeks — months, maybe — the corner of his mouth curved into something that wasn't a smirk or a sardonic twist.

It was a smile. Genuine. Uncontrolled.

"Thank you," he said. "Both of you."

Amber and Chloe exchanged a glance, still half-naked, still confused, but something in his voice made them quiet. He walked to the dresser and pulled out a wad of cash from the drawer — more than they'd asked for, more than they'd expected — and set it on the nightstand.

"That's for tonight. You can stay as long as you want. Finish the wine. Use the pool. I have to make a call."

He pulled on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, picked up his phone, and walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him.

In the living room, he stood at the glass wall, the city of Miami glittering below him, and pulled up Jeff's contact. He hit dial before he could second-guess himself.

It rang three times. Then Jeff's voice, rough, tired: "You alive?"

Christian leaned his forehead against the cool glass, closed his eyes, and let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for three weeks.

"Yeah," he said. "I think I found her."