Charlotte was halfway out the door, one heel buckled and the other dangling from her fingers, when the doorbell rang. She muttered something that definitely wasn't PG-rated and opened the door, fully expecting a courier or maybe Olivia with another oversized coffee.
What she got instead was Valeria—dressed like a Roman goddess who got lost on her way to a burlesque performance.
Lace. Red. Very little fabric. More leg than should be legal before sunset.
"Hello, darling," Valeria breezed in without waiting for an invitation. Her heels clicked against the hardwood like gunfire, and behind her—
Charlotte's jaw dropped.
The leash.
The leather collar.
The *very* familiar man crawling in behind her, shirtless, face blank, like his soul had left the building three days ago.
"Is that—"
"Marco?" Valeria purred, tugging the leash lightly. "Yes. He's being...rehabilitated. Don't worry, I fed him."
Charlotte blinked. "Fed him *what*?"
