The cigarette tasted like regret.
Aiden Wolf leaned against the balcony rail of his Manhattan penthouse, staring down at the city that never slept—just like him.
The sky was ink-black, painted with stars he could barely see between the high-rises and neon light bleed. He wasn't supposed to smoke anymore. His doctor had warned him. His assistant had nagged. Elena had begged.
But that was before. Before Tokyo. Before Sasha. Before this night.
Behind him, the sound of broken glass echoed off marble. He didn't flinch.
"Fuck you, Aiden!" came the scream from inside.
He let the smoke curl from his lips and finally turned.
Izzy Kane stood barefoot on his marble floor, eyes wide and glossy from whatever she'd poured into herself. Her whiskey bottle now lay in jagged shards beneath the fireplace. She was wearing one of his silk shirts—open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. Her dark hair hung wild around her shoulders, clinging to her sweat-soaked skin.
"You said you'd call," she spat, voice shaking. "After Tokyo. You promised."
Aiden walked slowly back inside, every step calculated, controlled. "I don't do promises, Izzy."
"That's a fucking lie," she snapped. "You promise with your body. You fuck like a god and vanish like a curse."
He didn't argue. He didn't need to. She was right.
Izzy had been trouble from the start.
Three years ago, he'd wandered into her Brooklyn tattoo shop during a thunderstorm. He hadn't been looking for ink—he had enough brands on his skin, and far more invisible ones carved into his soul. That night, he'd been running from Elena. From himself.
Izzy had been magnetic—pierced lips, violet eyes, a neck full of black-and-gray serpents. She tattooed strangers by day and shattered herself by night. They'd slept together in the backroom that night. No names. No questions. No rules.
But Izzy was the kind of woman who confused lust for love, and Aiden was the kind of man who made you believe in both—right before tearing it all down.
Now, standing in his penthouse, she looked like a painting melting off the canvas. Her hands were shaking, her heart bleeding out across the marble.
"I loved you," she said, voice raw. "And you—you used me."
"I never said I was safe."
"You didn't have to say it," she whispered. "You made me feel like I mattered."
Aiden looked at her—really looked. Beneath the chaos and alcohol and fury, she was just another person he had broken. Another one addicted to the drug that was him. Another soul fractured by his touch.
Later that night, the penthouse was silent again. Izzy had stormed out barefoot, leaving only shards of glass and the scent of regret behind. Aiden stood under the boiling stream of his shower, letting the water burn against his skin like penance.
He remembered the hospital call last year—Blake telling him Izzy had slit her wrists. The way her name had sat in his chest like a brick. He hadn't visited. He hadn't even texted. He had just moved on—to another city, another body, another moment of temporary relief.
"You're addictive, Aiden," Elena had once told him. "But people break when they overdose on you."
And now, he was starting to believe her.
By 4 a.m., he was in bed alone, phone in hand, screen glowing. Still no messages. No missed calls. No Elena.
He stared at the last thing she had texted:
"I can't keep loving someone who disappears into other people."
He typed:
"I miss you."
Deleted it.
Typed again:
"Still awake?"
Sent.
Nothing.
He laid there, fully clothed on top of the sheets, surrounded by a palace he built and a prison he couldn't escape.
The next morning, Aiden sat across from a woman with steel-gray eyes and a stare that didn't blink.
Dr. Nia Caldwell wasn't impressed. Her office was minimalist, no fluff. One plant, one desk, no smile.
"You don't seem like the kind of man who thinks he needs help," she said after three minutes of silence.
"I don't," Aiden answered, adjusting his cufflinks. "I'm just here so people stop asking me to come."
"Why do you think they want you to?"
He exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting to the window.
"Because I break things."
Dr. Caldwell nodded once. "What kind of things?"
Aiden's jaw clenched. His eyes sharpened. "People. I break people."
For the first time, her brow raised.
"Do you enjoy it?"
"No," he said. "But I can't stop."
Outside the clinic, the day was gray with a chill wind. Aiden made his way toward his McLaren, the therapy session already evaporating from his mind.
Then he saw her.
Sasha Vermeer leaned against the passenger door, a wicked smile pulling at her red lips.
"Miss me already?" she purred.
His eyes narrowed. "How did you know I was here?"
"You're not the only one with connections," she said, running her finger along the car door. "I heard you were trying therapy. Cute."
He walked past her, unlocked the car, but she slipped inside before he could stop her.
"I'm not finished with you yet, Mr. Wolf," she whispered, her voice brushing the back of his neck like smoke.
Aiden sat in the driver's seat, engine rumbling.
He didn't throw her out.
But he didn't look at her either.
He just stared straight ahead, at a city full of ghosts—and the one woman who still haunted him the most.