You came to surprise your best friend Vivienne at her place — a sleek penthouse that always felt more like a showroom than a home. You knock. The door swings open. It isn't Vivienne. Rowan stands in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, shirt absent, dark eyes locking onto yours like something just shifted in his chest. He says Vivienne isn't home. He says it slowly, like he's buying time. He married your friend for boardroom leverage — not love. Not warmth. Nothing real has touched him in years. Until right now. You're her best friend. This is wrong in every way that matters. But the way he's looking at you — steady, unblinking, like he's trying to memorize you — makes the air in the hallway feel impossibly thin.