The city sprawled beneath the penthouse windows, glittering and alive. But inside, it was a different world—quiet, sharp-edged, and heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.
Tristan walked in uninvited, as usual. No knock. No warning. Just the faint thud of designer boots on polished marble and a familiar voice laced with too much amusement.
"Well," Tristan said, slinging his coat over the back of a chair, "you've finally done it."
Adam didn't bother looking up from his drink.
"Define 'it.'"
"Kissed your fake fiancee on national television. I broke the internet. Killed the stock rumor mill. Hell, even my mom called to ask if you were secretly in love or just tactically insane."
Adam swirled the amber liquid in his glass, eyes fixed on the skyline. "Neither."
"Oh, come on. That kiss?" Tristan grinned, collapsing into the armchair across from him.
"You looked like you were about to devour her and start a civil war over the last bite."
