I can’t believe that happened.

Who the hell would have expected to run into a guy like Greg Matthews at a fundraiser for New York City afterschool shit? Not me. I haven’t seen him since the beginning of high school, when his father moved their entire family overseas to start a multinational corporation. He was gone well before my brother died.

On top of that, I can’t believe how much this is affecting me.

Hearing those words come out of his mouth has put me into a tailspin, and the fancy food and cocktails served so generously at the beginning of the fundraiser churn in my stomach.

I turn back to face Quinn. She is standing stock-still, her facial expression and posture conveying sympathy.

“That’s enough for now.”

She can clearly sense how this is non-negotiable because she agrees with me in a soothing tone. “Yes. Enough.”

I haven’t planned anything for the evening. This week has been packed to the gills, and it’s been easier to meet her at her place where there’s not a minefield of my personal items to distract us. I told Quinn at the Cottage that I would take her to my penthouse whenever she wanted, but she hasn’t brought it up since we came back to the city.

And I’ve been lying awake at night, trying to figure out what I’m going to do.

I’ll tell her.

But how?

How do I open my mouth and reveal this kind of secret to a woman who’s had enough lying, cheating behavior to last a lifetime?

Even when I stay at Carolyn’s, my arms wrapped snuggly around Quinn, her chest rising and falling against my chest while she breathes, it takes hours for me to fall asleep. As soon as my head hits the pillow, my heart rate skyrockets, beating so hard against my rib cage that I’m surprised it doesn’t wake her.

Her words ring in my ears.

I’m over liars.

That’s me.

A liar.

If not actively, then at least by omission, which isn’t any better.

Now this thing with Matthews.

I’m being driven into a trap, the escape route narrowing and narrowing until it’s going to take some kind of bodily sacrifice to get through to the other side.

These thoughts rage in my mind as Louis makes the drive from SoHo to Midtown. Quinn sits silently by my side, holding my hand tightly in hers, and I can’t think of a single thing to say. If I open my mouth right now, I might blurt out the awful truth that I’ve been carrying around with me for ten years.

And now—now is not the right time.

Louis pulls up to the curb and hops out, coming around to open Quinn’s door. She shades her eyes with her hand and looks up at the building, a skyscraper owned by Pierce Industries.

Calm down, Pierce.

I climb out to stand beside her.

“You’re all the way up at the top?”

“You’ve got that right.”

I lead her into the building, giving the doorman a nod as we go by.

“Mr. Pierce,” he says, nodding back.

“Phillip.”

Across from the main bank of elevators is a single shaft that goes one place and one place only: my penthouse. I take the access card out of my breast pocket, where I put it every morning, and swipe it through the reader.

“Highly exclusive,” Quinn says as we step inside, and I rub the small of her back. She’s trying to lighten the mood. I let her.

“Only the best,” I say lightly, as the car whisks us up, up, up.

When I open the door to the penthouse, Quinn steps inside, her eyes wide and alert. I can tell she’s excited, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. I wouldn’t admit it either, given the scene she witnessed, and the heavy silence that followed us all the way back to the building.

The entryway opens into a massive living area with a wall of windows looking out over the city. As the evening turns to night, and the lights of the buildings start flickering on, it’s a breathtaking view.

“Wow,” Quinn whispers, walking across to the bank of windows.

“That’s not all there is.”

I show her the kitchen, the library, the exercise room, and the two guest suites.

“Do you have a chef here, too?”

“I’m thinking of hiring one. Up until recently, I ate at the Swan when I was in the city. I do have a housekeeper, but this place is smaller than the Cottage—she’s only here three days a week.”

“Smaller? Not by much,” Quinn says, as she follows me down the hall to the master suite.

I open the door to reveal a massive king-sized bed, made up with dark sheets and covered by a comforter that looks like it’s made out of spun silver.

“Where the action happens,” I say, gesturing toward the bed, and Quinn laughs, the sound setting my heart at ease.

“This isn’t the only room, is it?” Quinn says.

I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”

We walk together, first through the master bedroom, which is easily the size of Quinn’s entire room in Carolyn’s apartment. Then I take her back across the room and down another hallway, off of which is a den and an office. These rooms are where I spend my time when I’m not at the Swan. I’ve been here more often recently, missing the hell out of Quinn.

As I watch her run her hands over the books on the shelves in the den, tilting her head to look at the titles, the reality of what I’ve done—and what it will do to her—tightens around my neck like icy fingers.

Will she ever come here once she knows?

I’ll give myself the night with her.

Then I’m going to tell her.

The thing with Matthews—it’s thrown my dilemma into stark relief.

I’m over liars.

I need one more night.