The scent of roasted potatoes and fresh coffee clung to the air like a warm blanket, the kind of smell that usually made Elena feel safe, cocooned in the familiar rhythm of Sunday brunch at her parents’ house. But this Sunday was different.

Because Marcus Sinclair was there.

At forty-two, Marcus carried himself with a presence that turned heads everywhere they went. He had that quiet, self-assured confidence of a man who knew who he was and never needed to prove it. Dark hair touched with ...