The Gold Coast mansion was silent when Dwayne entered, his footsteps echoing against polished marble floors. Outside, the city pulsed with life—horns blaring, neon signs flickering—but here, in the Knight estate, time seemed to slow. The walls held decades of family history: oil portraits of grim-faced ancestors, gilt-framed photographs of galas and boardroom victories.
It was supposed to feel like home.
It never did.
Dwayne shrugged off his coat and loosened his tie, the faint hum of the security system filling the air. Most nights, he preferred staying at his penthouse near Empire Tower. The mansion was too big, too heavy with ghosts. But tonight, after the chaos of his own thoughts, he had needed space.
He walked through the great hall toward his father's old study. The smell hit him first—leather, tobacco, aged whiskey. Nothing had changed since Richard Knight's death ten years ago. Dwayne had left the room exactly as it had been: books lined up with military precision, his father's favorite chair positioned by the fireplace, the crystal decanter half-filled with amber liquid.
Dwayne poured himself a drink and sank into the chair, staring at the fire he'd just lit. Flames flickered, casting long shadows across the room.
But instead of the fire, his mind replayed the morning.
Courtney.
Laughing with Ethan. Her smile soft, unguarded—so unlike the composed, professional expression she wore around him. With Ethan, she had looked… different.
Free.
The image gnawed at him. He told himself it was irrelevant. She was his assistant, nothing more. A subordinate. A pawn he'd placed under his thumb to remind her of her place.
So why couldn't he shake the memory of her laughter? Why had rage curled in his chest at the thought of her with another man?
He swallowed the whiskey in one long pull, the burn grounding him.
⸻
A knock at the study door interrupted his brooding.
"Come in," he said flatly.
The door opened, and Margaret Knight stepped inside.
His mother.
Even at seventy, she was regal—her silver hair styled into a neat chignon, her pearl necklace catching the firelight. She moved with the grace of someone who had spent her life at society's center, and her eyes, sharp as ever, missed nothing.
"You're home early," she said, her voice smooth but edged. "I thought you'd be working late."
Dwayne didn't look at her. "Change of pace."
Margaret studied him, then glanced at the glass in his hand. "Change of mood, too, it seems."
Dwayne smirked without humor. "You always did have a way of prying."
"Not prying. Observing." She stepped closer, settling into the chair opposite him. "Something is troubling you. Business?"
"Always," he said automatically.
But Margaret raised one perfectly arched brow. "No. This isn't business. This is personal."
Dwayne's jaw tightened. "There is no personal."
Margaret's lips curved into a knowing smile. "You sound just like your father. He used to say that too. And yet, here you are, brooding in his study with a glass of whiskey, just as he once did."
Her words settled heavily between them. Richard Knight had been a man of power, but also of coldness. To him, family was obligation, business was survival, and weakness was unforgivable.
Dwayne had learned early: emotion was dangerous.
And yet, tonight, emotion was all he had.
⸻
Margaret's gaze softened. "It's a woman, isn't it?"
Dwayne stiffened. "Don't."
"I see it in your face. That flicker of something you try to bury. You may fool your board, your rivals, even your so-called allies. But you cannot fool me."
Dwayne swirled the last of his whiskey, staring into the amber liquid. "She's… nothing."
"Then why do you look as though you've lost a battle?"
He didn't answer.
Margaret leaned forward slightly, her voice low. "Be careful, Dwayne. Women can be either a man's greatest strength or his greatest undoing. Your father underestimated that once. It cost him dearly."
Dwayne looked up sharply. "What are you talking about?"
But Margaret only shook her head. "That is a story for another time."
Frustration coiled in him. His mother was a master of half-truths and veiled warnings, always dangling just enough to provoke. He hated it.
And yet, her words lingered.
Undoing.
⸻
Later, after Margaret had retired for the night, Dwayne stood alone on the balcony overlooking Lake Michigan. The city lights glittered like a thousand watchful eyes, the water dark and restless below.
His phone buzzed. A new report from his private investigator.
He hesitated before opening it.
Subject: Ethan Cole.
The file was thorough: financial records, business ties, past relationships. Nothing surprising—Ethan was exactly what Dwayne had suspected. Smooth, opportunistic, always angling for a connection that would elevate him.
And now, he was circling Courtney.
Dwayne's chest tightened as he scrolled through photographs. One in particular stopped him cold: Courtney at the café that morning, Ethan leaning in too close. Her expression wasn't flirtatious, though. If anything, she looked uncomfortable.
Dwayne zoomed in, studying her eyes. She wasn't smiling at Ethan the way he had thought. Not really.
For a moment, something eased in him.
Then anger replaced it. Anger at himself for caring.
He locked the phone and shoved it into his pocket, his knuckles white against the balcony railing.
Courtney Taylor was becoming a distraction. And distractions were dangerous.
He needed control.
He would take it back.
⸻
But as he turned back inside, his mind betrayed him. He pictured her again—not with Ethan, not at the café, but as she had looked that night at the cabin.
Wearing his shirt.
Barefoot.
Smiling at him like he wasn't the man everyone feared, but simply a man.
For the first time in years, Dwayne felt a crack in the armor he had built.
And he didn't know if he wanted to seal it—or let it break open.