Rhea’s voice died in her throat.Johnny’s eyes flicked toward her—only for a second, barely long enough to register—but even in that fraction of a moment, she saw something rare in him. Surprise. Not fear. Not hesitation. Something closer to: Well… that changes things.The boss didn’t hide his reaction. He practically melted into a puddle of relief, shoulders sagging, lips trembling. A long, pitiful sob ripped out of him like he had been holding it back for hours.But Rhea didn’t hear him.Her world tilted. She felt the dizzying drop in her stomach, the kind that comes right before a crash. Because standing in the entrance of the elevator—tall, broad-shouldered, every inch carved out of iron—was a man whose presence could silence an entire room.Commissioner Gerald Kane.To the city, he was the highest-ranking law enforcement officer. The top authority. The man whose signature could start or stop wars in Pantheon Valley’s underbelly.To Rhea, he was something else. Something much more

“Gerald, you can’t be serious,” Rhea said, her voice cracking between disbelief and anger.“Did I stutter?” Commissioner Kane replied, every syllable clipped, sharp, and final.Rhea stared at him, searching his face for even a trace of softness. There was none. He looked at her with the same cold professionalism he reserved for criminals caught on tape with murder weapons in hand.“You’re suspending me?” she repeated, desperate, like maybe saying it out loud would make the ridiculousness of it sink into his skull. “On what grounds? Why? What exactly did I do to get suspended?”Kane didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.“Going rogue,” he said. “Endangering civilians. Torturing a suspect.”“What the hell are you talking about?” Rhea snapped. “That man is not a suspect, and you know it.”“The law,” Kane said calmly, “states he is innocent until proven guilty.”“Oh, please,” she shot back, throwing her hands up. “What more proof could you possibly need? He literally admitted half of

“Wait—are we… actually going to the Nebula Hotel?” Rhea asked as Johnny made the turn toward the tall lit-up building.“Yeah. Why?” Johnny replied casually. “You hate the place or something?”“No,” she said quickly, “but just so we’re clear… ‘let’s have a drink’ isn’t code for ‘let’s have sex,’ right?”Johnny barked a short laugh.“Yeah, I know. That wasn’t the intention.”But then the devil perched on his shoulder whispered something stupid, and he let it slip out anyway:“…unless you want—”“God, no—” she cut in before he finished.“Right,” Johnny muttered, smirking to cover the embarrassment clawing through him.Inside, he was mentally punching himself in the throat.What the hell was he thinking?She just blew up her marriage, torched her career, and walked away from everything for his sake—and that was the first thing his brain chose to suggest?Idiot.Idiot, idiot, idiot.“So why are we going to the Nebula Hotel?” she pressed.Johnny shrugged. “Because it’s probably the only est

Understood. Johnny didn’t need her to say it twice. The moment the words left Rhea’s lips — slurred, warm, almost melting into his ear — something in him clicked. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the adrenaline still thrumming in both their veins. Maybe it was the fact that she had just thrown her entire life on the line for him. Whatever it was, he scooped her up the way a man does when reason and instinct are at war — and instinct wins. Her soft laugh tickled his neck as he carried her out of the private bar and toward the elevator. She draped an arm lazily around his shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy shapes on his collarbone. Even half-conscious from exhaustion and too many bottles, she moved like heat incarnate. Every part of her was warm, pliant, alive. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Sophie Green was standing there, a professional smile plastered to her face — except this time, it twitched. Just a little. Just enough to notice. Maybe it was jeal

Johnny woke up to silence.Not the good kind.The unnerving kind—the kind that sits on your chest and refuses to move.The room was dim, lit only by the thin gray wash of morning squeezing through the curtains. His head throbbed. His throat felt like sand. His jaw was tight, as if he had been grinding it all night.He blinked, groaned, pushed himself upright.The other side of the bed was cold.Too cold.He frowned. The sheets were neatly folded back, like someone had slipped out carefully, deliberately, trying not to wake him.His heartbeat flicked once—then kicked.“Rhea?”Silence.He swung his legs off the bed and stood, ignoring how weak and unsteady he felt. He scanned the bedroom first—the chair, the couch, the messy pile of their clothes on the floor from last night’s chaos.No Rhea.He tried the bathroom.“Rhea?” His voice echoed against marble. Empty.He checked the closet. The entryway. The balcony.Nothing.A jolt shot through his chest. Fear. Stupid, irrational fear, but it