The pale, bruised light of Monday morning fractured through the rain-streaked glass of the penthouse, leaving geometric shadows across the tangled silk sheets.
Ryan opened his eyes.
The room was heavy with the scent of vanilla, expensive shampoo, and the lingering, musky iron tang of sex. He lay perfectly still, cataloging the weight pressing against him.
Zara slept with her face buried in the crook of his neck, her dark hair spilling across his collarbone. Her breathing was a slow, rhythmic tide.
Sophie was curled against his left side, one arm thrown over his stomach, her fingers loosely gripping the edge of the duvet.
Diana lay on his right, her back pressed flush against his hip, deeply submerged in a sleep that looked entirely devoid of the crushing corporate anxiety she had carried for a decade.
He didn't wake them.
