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I pushed open the door, strode into the elevator, headed straight to my office.

The room smelled of cigars and cologne.

I threw my bloodstained coat on the couch, yanked off my tie, and undid the top two buttons of my shirt. A fresh scab marked my right hand—torn open on metal during the dock cleanup.

I poured half a glass of whiskey and downed it.

The liquor burned down my throat and into my stomach, but it did nothing for the fire clawing at my chest.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside—heels clicking unevenly on the carpet.

I spun around.

The door opened.

Ruby stood in the doorway clutching a garment bag, her face white as paper. Hollowed eyes, bruised shadows beneath her lashes, lips cracked and bloodless. In just a few days she'd withered like a drained rose, drowning in an oversized knit sweater.

The moment I saw her, the violence in me cracked into something sharper.

"Ruby." My voice came out hoarse as I crossed the marble floor.

She looked up. Her amber eyes flooded red, tears pooling instantly.

Fuck this.

I yanked the garment bag from her arms, tossed it on the carpet, and pulled her into me. I kissed her hard.

No restraint. Three days of being ignored, the bloodlust from the docks, the possessive panic twisting in my chest—all of it poured into that kiss. My hand locked around the back of her head, prying her teeth apart, claiming every breath in her mouth.

She went rigid at first, hands pushing against my chest.

But within seconds, she melted.

Her fists unclenched, clutching my shirt instead, knuckles white. A broken sound caught in her throat. Then her trembling arms slid up my chest and around my neck, her whole body collapsing into mine.

I tightened my grip on her waist, wanted to crush her into my ribs. Her hair smelled wrong—cheap instant coffee and exhaustion replacing the sweet almond scent. It made my eyes sting.

I pulled back half an inch, lips grazing her swollen mouth, forehead pressed to hers, chest heaving.

"What the hell have you been doing?" My voice was gravel. My thumb scraped over the bruises under her eyes. "Why are you avoiding me? Why won't you answer me? Who gave you permission to run yourself into the ground?"

She bit her torn lip, tears streaming onto my hand.

"Marcelo, I just—"

The door handle turned with a sharp click.

We both froze.

The double doors swung open.

Isabella breezed in on stilettos, carrying two paper coffee cups, her face bright and unguarded. "Daddy! I just stood in line on Fifth Avenue for your favorite sugar-free double shot—"

Her voice died.

The cups slipped from her hands and hit the carpet.

They exploded. Brown liquid and white foam sprayed everywhere, soaking into the rug, steam rising, scalding droplets hitting her lambskin boots.