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The elevator doors slid open at the penthouse. I pushed through the door, then slowed my steps. I crossed the foyer and hung my jacket on the rack.

No answer.

The silence was deafening. The living room lights were still on. The glass of honey water I'd left her sat cold and untouched on the coffee table. Next to it, the note I'd written—

It hadn't moved.

Dread seized my chest.

"Little rose?" I strode toward the bedroom and pushed open the door.

The bed was wrecked, but empty. The bathroom door hung half-open. No one.

She was gone.

I stood in the center of the room, staring at the twisted sheets, a strange cocktail of emotions rising in my chest—loss, confusion, and a flicker of insulted rage.

I pulled out my phone. No messages.

She hadn't even taken my number.

So that was it. She'd woken up, regretted it, and bolted.

I should respect that. I was an adult. I knew the rules of a one-night stand—when it's over, it's over. No one owes anyone anything.

"Fuck."

I yanked off my tie.

But why did my chest feel like it was being crushed?

I left the bedroom and poured myself a whiskey at the island.

What were you expecting, Marcelo? That some college girl would wake up after being cheated on, getting drunk, and sleeping with a stranger, and cheerfully wait for you to come home for breakfast?

Damn it. But she couldn't even leave me one word?

I drained the glass, ran a hand through my hair, and pulled out my phone to have Rocco track down little rose's name—when my private line buzzed.

Hell. Who now?

The screen read "Tesoro."

Right. My little tyrant. I sighed and answered.

"Daddy, thank God you finally picked up!" Isabella's voice burst through, energetic but furious.

"Good morning, Isa." I rubbed my temple. "I thought you'd be passed out after partying all night."

"I was! But I'm too pissed to sleep!" Isabella was practically snarling. "Daddy, I need to borrow some guys. The kind that look scary and hit hard—like Rocco's crew!"

I raised an eyebrow and headed toward the foyer. "What happened? Who pissed off my princess?"

"Not me—my best friend! Some son of a bitch lied to her for a year and bet her like she was a poker chip! I swear I'm gonna stuff that bastard in a bag and teach him a lesson he'll never forget!"

I paused mid-step. Ugh. Apparently every asshole in New York had the same playbook.

"Isa, you know I don't approve of—"