The weight of silence in Lexington Latham's penthouse felt different at night. The kind of quiet that didn't bring peace.

Lex stood barefoot near the floor-to-ceiling window, whiskey glass dangling loosely from his fingers. The skyline below him, lights blinking mocking him. Three years ago, this view had meant power, his world.

Money, power and legacy.

Now it was just empty.

Behind him, the faint sound of water dripping. A leak, probably from a tap that hadn't been repaired. He didn't bother fixing it—no point. Not when everything was breaking , falling down.

His eyes drifted to the window—his reflection. The suit jacket didn't fit him like it used to. The creases on his shirt, and the bruising under his left eye hadn't faded yet.

Barnie Maddox's idea of a warning.

Lex let out a slow breath, taking a sip from the glass. The liquor burned, but it wasn't enough to drown out the weight pressing on his chest.

He heard the key turn in the lock behind him.

Rose.

Her footsteps were soft, but he could hear the hesitation. She always lingered near the door like she wasn't sure if staying was the right choice.

"You didn't call," she said quietly, setting down her bag near the entrance.

Lex didn't turn around. "Didn't know I needed to."

Rose stepped further inside, arms crossed as she glanced around the penthouse. Her eyes landed on the stack of unpaid bills near the kitchen counter—right next to the half-empty bottle of bourbon.

"Barnie sent someone?" she asked.

Lex's smirk, barely. "Trent."

Rose exhaled softly, brushing her hair over one shoulder.

"He's bolder."

Trent Garrison wasn't the kind of guy you ignored—not because he demanded attention, but because he filled a room without trying. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the build of someone who didn't mind settling things the hard way, Trent carried himself like he had something to prove.

His dark hair was always cut short, but never too neat—just messy enough to suggest he didn't care about office politics, even if he played them better than most. His sleeves were perpetually rolled up, showing faint scars along his forearms, remnants of a past that didn't belong in corporate finance. He was a problem that always bothered Lex.

Lex slowly turned. His gaze lingered on her—their eyes met.

"The nature of men like Uncle Barnie, Rose. They don't get bolder."

Her brow furrowed. "Then what?"

Lex's smirk faded.

"This is desperation."

The room went silence.

Rose didn't argue, but she didn't look convinced either.

Lex stepped past her, setting the empty glass down on the counter.

"You should stop coming here," he muttered.

Rose arched a brow. "That another order?"

Lex shook his head. "It's advice."

Her voice softened. "I stopped listening to your advice a long time ago."

He glanced over catching the faint flicker of something in her expression. Loyalty or maybe regret.

Lex leaned against the counter, watching her.

"You're still here, Rose. Why?"

She didn't answer right away.

Instead, she stepped closer, voice low but certain.

"Because someone's has to look out for you."