The private elevator doors slid open, depositing Aidan directly into his Tribeca penthouse.
The massive, open-concept space was pitch black. He didn't touch the light switches. He walked through the darkness, shrugging off his suit jacket and letting it drop onto the custom Italian leather sofa.
He walked straight to the marble island in the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of Belvedere vodka, ignored the ice bucket, and poured a heavy measure into a glass. He threw his head back and swallowed it in one burn.
The alcohol scorched his throat, but it couldn't touch the sick, twisting knot of jealousy in his gut.
The soft chime of the front door keypad echoed in the silence.
K. Jennings stepped inside. His arms were empty. He moved silently, knowing better than to turn on the lights when Aidan was in this mood.
Aidan's eyes flicked to the marble island. The bouquet of white Lisianthus sat exactly where it had been placed before his arrival—pristine, untouched, a ghost of a promise he had made eight years ago. Jennings had followed his order to the letter.
"His name is Orville Frye," Jennings said, his voice low and clinical. "Art Director at the publishing group. He is currently single. Office rumors suggest he has been aggressively pursuing Ms. Pitts for six months."
Aidan's hand tightened around the empty glass.
Pursuing.
The thick crystal of the tumbler let out a sharp, terrifying crack under the pressure of his grip.
"Get out," Aidan whispered, his voice rough as sandpaper.
Jennings bowed his head slightly and backed out of the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.
Aidan stood in the dark. His eyes locked onto the white Lisianthus.
They were Julianna's favorite. Eight years ago, on that rainy night, he had bought a bouquet just like this. He had planned to ask her to marry him.
He reached out. His long fingers brushed against the delicate, velvety petals. The touch was agonizingly gentle, almost reverent.
Then, the image of Orville's arm draped over her shoulders flashed behind his eyes.
Aidan let out a guttural sound. His hand shot out, his fingers crushing the stems. He picked up the massive bouquet and hurled it against the far wall with explosive violence.
The flowers shattered. White petals exploded into the air, raining down onto the hardwood floor like dead snow.
He paced the length of the living room, his breathing heavy and ragged. He ran both hands through his hair, gripping the roots until it hurt.
He stopped by the sofa, dropped to his knees, and yanked open the bottom drawer of the end table. He pulled out a worn, leather-bound sketchbook.
He flipped it open to the first page. It was a charcoal drawing of a girl reading a book. The lines were soft, capturing the exact curve of her jaw and the slope of her nose.
Aidan's trembling fingers traced the paper. His eyes burned.
"Julianna," he whispered into the empty room. His voice broke, heavy with a pathetic, desperate longing.
He slumped back against the base of the sofa, pulling the sketchbook tight against his chest, right over his violently beating heart.
Across the room, his phone lit up on the counter. A file from Jennings.
Aidan didn't move for ten minutes. Finally, the raw vulnerability drained from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating mask.
He stood up, walked to the counter, and opened the file. It detailed the massive budget crisis Julianna's department was facing over an anniversary issue.
A slow, cruel smile curved Aidan's lips. He had found his way in. He was going to use her job to trap her.
