Rain slashed the street. Celine tossed her umbrella into the gutter as if it were a lie and yanked the passenger door open. Chase slid out of the alley like a wounded thing—coat ripped, suit stained with mud, one shoe gone. He smelled of diesel and late-night desperation. He looked, impossibly, like someone who had lost everything and hadn't yet decided whether to keep breathing. "You idiot," she said, because what else did you call the man who'd once been the city's promised son and was now hitching his pride to the hem of her patience? Her voice had steel. The rain didn't offer mercy. Chase blinked. For a second he looked younger than his years—hungry, raw. "Celine," he said. It was not a plea. It was a name carrying the weight of old promises and later debts. She hauled him into the car. The leather soaked, but she didn't care. Her hands were steady. Her fingers brushed his jaw as she shoved him down into the seat. For a moment, his eyes caught hers—confession without words. She ignored it. There would be time for that. "You're a mess," she said. "What happened to you?" He laughed, small, and it broke something inside her she hadn't meant to admit existed. "Everything happened to us," he said. "The Carvalhos pushed the loan. Victor called in favors. We—" He swallowed. "We lost the company tonight." Celine's jaw tightened. Victor Carvalho