Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the home office, the gray morning light filtering through the sheets of water that streaked down the glass. Damien stood at the window, his back to the massive mahogany desk, a phone pressed to his ear as the voice of some panicked board member droned through the speaker. He'd been on calls since four in the morning, had fielded seventeen different variations of the same question—what happens now, who takes over the Asian division, how do we handle the Tokyo deal—and he was running out of patience for men who needed their hands held through a transition they should have been able to execute in their sleep.

The estate was too quiet. Melinda had been hovering outside his door since dawn, knocking softly, asking if he needed anything, if he wanted breakfast, if he wanted company. He'd dismissed her each time with a curt "not now" that should have been enough to send her retreating. But she kept coming back. He could hear her footsteps in the hallway, the soft pad of her ballet flats on the hardwood, the hesitation before each knock.

He ended the call without saying goodbye, dropping the phone onto the desk and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The pressure in his skull was building, a tight band of tension that had been winding tighter since the phone call in Greece, since the moment he'd heard his father's voice—no, not his father's voice, some nameless officer's voice—telling him there had been an accident.

The door creaked open behind him.

"Damien?"

Jessica's voice. Soft. Careful. He didn't turn around.

"Not now, Jessica."

The door closed, but he heard her footsteps approaching anyway. Felt her hands slide across his shoulders from behind, her fingers pressing into the tight muscle at the base of his neck. She was wearing something light—a thin sundress, probably, the same kind she'd worn in Greece, completely inappropriate for the gray drizzle pressing against the windows.

"You're wound up," she said, her voice low, trying for seductive. "Let me help."

He felt her press against his back, felt the soft weight of her breasts through the thin fabric, felt her hands slide down his chest. She was trying to turn him around, trying to guide him toward the leather chair behind the desk, and he knew exactly what she was offering—the same thing Elena had offered on the jet. Comfort through submission. A warm body to lose himself in.

He let her turn him. Let her guide him to the chair. Let her sink to her knees in front of him, her hands moving to his belt, her eyes looking up at him with that desperate hunger she always wore when she wanted to prove she was useful.

But when her fingers found the buckle, something in him went cold.

He caught her wrist.

"No."

She blinked, confusion flickering across her features. "But I thought—"

"You thought wrong." His voice was flat, empty, the voice he used when he was done negotiating. "Get up."

She rose slowly, her cheeks flushing, her hands dropping to her sides. She looked small standing there in her sundress, rain-light casting shadows across her face, her honey-brown hair hanging limp in the humidity. She looked like a child playing dress-up, not the confident woman who'd spent the summer seducing him on terraces and in beach clubs.

"I'm trying to help," she said, her voice thin. "You're grieving, you're under pressure, I thought—"

"I know what you thought." He stood, stepping past her, moving to the window. "But I don't want comfort right now, Jessica. I want to break something."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and dark. He watched her reflection in the glass, watched the way she processed that statement, watched the calculation flicker behind her eyes. She was trying to decide if she could be that for him. Trying to decide if she wanted to be.

The answer was written in the way she hesitated. In the way she took a half-step back. In the way her hands came up, not to touch him, but to fold across her chest in a gesture of self-protection.

He almost laughed. Almost. She'd spent the entire summer throwing herself at him, begging for his attention, competing with Elena for his favor. But the moment he asked for something real—something that required her to surrender not just her body but her sense of safety—she flinched.

"Leave," he said, his voice quiet, final. "Before I say something we'll both regret."

She opened her mouth to argue, but the knock on the door cut her off.

"Damien?" Melinda's voice, muffled through the wood. "I brought you coffee."

Jessica's eyes went wide. She looked at the door, then at him, then at the massive desk behind her—the open knee-hole, the dark space beneath the mahogany. Panic flickered across her face, the desperate calculation of a woman about to be caught.

"Get under the desk," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"What? No, I can just—"

"Now."

She scrambled, her bare knees hitting the hardwood as she dove beneath the opening, her sundress bunching around her thighs as she pressed herself into the shadows. He watched her disappear, watched the darkness swallow her, and felt a pulse of something cold and cruel settle into his chest.

He crossed to the door and opened it.

Melinda stood in the hallway, a tray in her hands—a porcelain coffee pot, a cup, a small pitcher of cream. She was dressed in a high-necked blouse and tailored trousers, her honey-blonde hair perfectly waved, her green eyes soft with concern. She looked like the perfect wife, the grieving daughter-in-law, the woman who had no idea that her sister was crouched beneath her husband's desk.

"I thought you might need this," she said, offering the tray. "You've been in here all morning."

He took the tray, set it on the edge of the desk, and turned back to her. She stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room, landing on the rumpled papers, the empty coffee cups from earlier, the general chaos of a man who'd been working nonstop for hours.

"How are you holding up?" she asked, moving closer.

The question was genuine. She reached for him, her hand finding his chest, her fingers splaying across the fabric of his shirt. She was trying to connect, trying to bridge the distance that had been growing between them for years, and the pathetic desperation of it made something in his gut twist.

"Fine."

"You don't have to be fine with me." Her voice was soft, her eyes searching his face. "I'm your wife. You can let me in."

He looked at her. Really looked at her. The slim, elegant lines of her body, the narrow waist that curved into hips that were almost boyish in their lack of softness. The flat chest beneath her blouse, the absence of the full, heavy curves that he craved, that he needed, that he couldn't stop thinking about even as she stood here offering herself to him.

Elena's body. Vanessa's body. Jessica's body, and the countless other women he has been with— all of them had what Melinda lacked. All of them were soft where Melinda was sharp, full where Melinda was flat. He had married a woman who fit the social ideal of a titan's wife—slim, elegant, refined—and he had spent every year since discovering that refinement meant nothing to him in the dark.

But she was here. She was offering. And there was a woman beneath his desk who needed to watch.

He pulled Melinda into a kiss, his mouth covering hers, his hand sliding to the back of her head. She melted into him immediately, a soft sound escaping her throat, her body pressing against his with a hunger that bordered on pathetic. She had been starving for his attention for so long that even a scrap of it made her tremble.

He broke the kiss and turned her, pressing her forward against the edge of the desk. Her hands caught the mahogany, her breath hitching as she felt him behind her, his body pressing against her back. He positioned her deliberately, carefully, angling her so that when she bent forward, her face was directly above the open knee-hole.

Directly above the shadows where Jessica was hiding.

He saw the flash of Jessica's eyes in the darkness, wide and terrified and burning. Saw her press her hand over her mouth, her body frozen, her breath held. She was inches from her sister's face, hidden in the dark, forced to watch as he unbuttoned his trousers.

Melinda gasped as he pulled her trousers down, baring her from behind. She was wet—of course she was, she was always wet for him, always ready, always desperate for whatever scrap of attention he threw her way. He lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, and drove into her in one hard thrust.

She cried out, her fingers scrabbling against the polished wood. He set a brutal pace immediately, hard and punishing, his hips slapping against her with wet, rhythmic sounds that filled the office. His eyes never left the shadows beneath the desk. Never left Jessica's face, frozen in the dark, her hand still pressed over her mouth, her body trembling as she watched her sister get fucked inches from her face.

"Touch yourself," he said, his voice low, rough, commanding.

Melinda moaned, clearly thinking the command was for her. Her hand slid down her body, her fingers finding her clit, but Damien's gaze never left the darkness. He watched Jessica's reaction, watched the war play out across her features—the horror, the arousal, the desperate need to obey. She was shaking, her thighs pressed together, her body aching for release she wasn't allowed to give herself unless he commanded it.

"I said touch yourself," he repeated, his voice harder now, sharper, his eyes boring into the shadows.

Jessica's hand moved. He saw it in the darkness, saw her fingers slide beneath the hem of her sundress, saw the tremor that ran through her body as she obeyed. She was watching him fuck her sister, touching herself in the dark, and the shame and heat and desperate need were written all over her face.

He drove into Melinda harder, faster, the desk creaking beneath them, the sound of wet flesh echoing off the walls. He watched Jessica's hand move faster, watched her eyes go glassy, watched her bite her lip to keep from moaning. He watched her come undone in the darkness, her body shuddering against the desk's inner wall, her hand pressed hard against her mouth to muffle the sound of her own climax.

And then he pulled out.

Melinda gasped at the sudden emptiness, but he was already stroking himself, already coming on her back, hot ropes of cum splattering across her spine and the fabric of her blouse. He groaned, the release sharp and bitter, nothing like the deep, consuming pleasure of claiming someone he actually wanted.

He stood there, catching his breath, and watched Melinda straighten slowly, her hands shaking as she pulled her trousers back up. She turned to face him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dreamy, her lips curved in a soft, foolish smile.

"That was—" she started.

"Go wait for me in the master suite," he said, his voice flat. "I'll be there soon."

She nodded, leaning in to kiss him, her mouth warm and soft and utterly delusional. "I'll be waiting."

She walked out of the office, her step light, her body still humming from his attention. She believed she had reached him. Believed she had broken through his grief and reminded him that she was his wife, his partner, the woman he had chosen.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The silence stretched for a long moment.

Then Jessica crawled out from under the desk, her face flushed, her sundress hiked up around her thighs, her eyes dark with desperate, unspent need. She rose to her knees in front of him, her hands reaching for him, her voice thick with want.

"My turn."

He looked down at her. At the mess of her hair, the flush on her cheeks, the desperate hunger in her eyes. She was so eager, so willing, so pathetically ready to give him whatever he wanted in exchange for a few moments of his attention.

He reached down and grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"No."

Her face crumpled. "What? But I—"

"Seeing you cower under that desk," he said, his voice soft, deliberate, cruel, "hiding from your sister like a dirty secret. That proved something to me, Jessica." He leaned closer, his mouth inches from hers. "You don't have the confidence to handle the real thing. You're not ready for what I need tonight."

He released her chin and turned away, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair.

"Go back home, Jessica. Consider it a lesson in patience."

He heard her breath hitch, heard the sob she swallowed, heard her scramble to her feet. But he didn't turn around. He walked out of the office, down the hallway, past the stairs where Melinda was waiting, past the portraits of his dead parents, past the life he was supposed to be mourning.

The rain hit him as he stepped outside, cold and sharp against his face. He didn't slow down. He crossed the gravel drive to his car, slid into the driver's seat, and sat there for a moment, watching the water streak across the windshield.

He pulled out his phone and dialed.

It rang twice before a voice answered—teasing, playful, the voice of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.

"Papi. I was wondering when you'd call."

"The penthouse," he said, his voice flat, commanding. "Be there in an hour. Undressed. On your knees. Ready."

A pause. When she spoke again, the teasing was gone, replaced by something softer, something hungrier. "Yes, Papi."

He ended the call and threw the car into drive, the tires spraying gravel as he tore down the long driveway, leaving the estate and its ghosts behind him. The city waited. Camille waited. And he had three days of rage and grief and unspent fury that needed a proper vessel.