The elevator doors sighed open onto the penthouse.
Phei stepped out.
And he was singing.
Not humming, not muttering—full-throated, shameless singing. Some half-forgotten lullaby his mother used to croon over the dishes, resurrected from the crypt of his childhood and poured out now with the unbridled, ridiculous joy of a man whose entire worldview had just been gloriously detonated.
His body moved with it—feet gliding across the marble in lazy, perfect rhythm, hips rolling slow and filthy like he was fucking the air itself, shoulders loose, head tilted back, eyes half-closed in pure, stupid bliss.
Melissa loved me.
Melissa has always loved me.
What the actual, literal, ever-loving FUCK.
He found his house slippers by the entrance—those absurd black-velvet beauties with the little gold crest that Sierra had bought as a joke, swearing he'd never wear them. Joke's on her; they were the most comfortable things he'd ever put on his feet, and he'd fight a god in them if necessary.
