Shane stood alone in the alley long after May vanished into the dark.
Her lips still tingled. Her fingers still curled like they were clinging to the echo of May's waist. The sharp sound of May's heels had faded, but Shane could still hear it—like a clock ticking down inside her chest.
She hated this feeling.
She hated needing.
Shaking her head, she slipped her hands into her pockets and headed for the black Maserati parked at the curb. The valet nodded as she approached, but Shane didn't speak. She never had to. People moved when she did. The world bent around her presence.
Because Shane Kingston wasn't just some rich girl with good taste and sharp cheekbones.
She was a damn empire.
At twenty-four, Shane had already built a tech company that major players in Silicon Valley whispered about. She owned three properties in L.A., a penthouse in Manhattan, a villa in Italy, and a private retreat in Costa Rica. Her bank account had more zeroes than most CEOs twice her age. Forbes had tried to profile her. She refused. GQ wanted her on a cover. She declined.
Power was better when it stayed quiet.
She preferred it that way. Clean. Controlled. Sharp.
She drove in silence through the sleeping city, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping a cigarette she didn't light. Shane didn't smoke. She just liked the feel of it—like a vice she could control.
Her penthouse downtown overlooked the skyline. A wall of glass revealed a view most people would kill for. Inside, it was sleek—marble, leather, low lighting, every corner designed for elegance and solitude. Everything in its place. No clutter. No warmth.
Just the way she liked it.
Or used to.
Now, every room felt too empty.
She poured herself a drink—something aged and expensive—then leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out into the abyss of city lights. Below, the world pulsed with life, chaos, noise. But up here, it was still.
And she hated it.
May had cracked something in her. And it wasn't just about sex. Shane had had plenty of that. Beautiful women, unforgettable nights, no strings. That was the game. Her rules. Her rhythm.
But May didn't play by rules. She rewrote them.
She didn't just make Shane want her. She made Shane question herself.
And that was dangerous.
The ice clinked in her glass. Her reflection in the window stared back—hard eyes, strong jaw, posture like a soldier. A woman with the world at her feet and a fortress around her heart.
So why did she feel like she was already losing?
Her phone buzzed.
No name. Just a message.
Unknown Number: You build walls. I walk through them.
Shane's heart skipped.
She didn't reply.
Instead, she drained her glass, walked across the silent apartment, and sat at her piano—an untouched Steinway grand, black as night. She ran her fingers along the keys. She hadn't played in years.
But now… now she needed a sound that wasn't May's laugh in her head.
She pressed one note. Then another.
And for the first time in a long time, Shane played something soft.
Something broken.