Rowan didn't sleep.
Not that he ever truly did—not since he'd built an empire that refused to rest.
But tonight, it wasn't the usual numbers or negotiations pacing in his mind.
It was her.
The clink of ice in a glass echoed in the stillness of his penthouse. The city below was a maze of golden lights and ghosted traffic, but up here, all was silent.
Almost.
His phone buzzed. He ignored it at first—until he saw the name.
Nico.
"Dropped by your mystery girl. She's sharper than you think. Thought you should know."
Rowan's jaw flexed.
He didn't respond.
Instead, he poured another two fingers of bourbon and stared at the message like it had insulted him. No. Not the message. The implication.
She had opened her door to Nico.
She had spoken to Nico.
A flash of red crossed his memory—that dress, that wicked smile paired with unbothered eyes. The subtle cruelty of knowing you had power and choosing not to use it… yet.
He stood, slowly, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling window, letting the weight of everything slide onto his shoulders.
Rowan Vale didn't get distracted. He didn't notice people.
But Lila Penrose?
She didn't ask to be noticed. She commanded it—and then punished you for looking.
He found himself picturing her again—coming out of that pool, droplets like diamonds on her skin, her wink sharper than any boardroom dagger.
His fingers tightened around the glass.
"I don't play games," he muttered under his breath.
But even he didn't believe it tonight.
Because for the first time in a long time, the king wasn't moving the pieces.
He was becoming one.
---
The Man Behind the Marble
Rowan stood in the shower far longer than necessary.
The water beat down like a confession, steam curling around the edges of the glass. His eyes were shut, hands braced on the marble wall in front of him, head bowed—not in defeat, but in a silent war with himself.
Lila Penrose.
Her name was too soft for what she stirred.
It had only been days since that meeting in the boardroom, the way she strutted in like the world owed her its breath. Her dress—a red that didn't just whisper danger, but promised it. That glance she gave him: uninterested, flirtatious, dismissive.
Rowan Vale was not a man who got dismissed.
And yet here he was, tracing her expression like it had been tattooed behind his eyes.
He shut off the water with a grunt, stepping out, toweling down in short, hard swipes. Even the luxury of silence annoyed him this morning. He had meetings, clients, money waiting. But his mind kept circling one thing:
Was Nico right? Had she cracked him?
He pulled on his charcoal-gray suit like armor. Crisp shirt. Black tie. Watch. Cologne—his signature.
Then he paused.
The bottle hovered in his hand.
He remembered the first time she smelled him. She didn't even see his face—just his cologne lingering in a hallway—and that started everything.
He applied it anyway.
Let her burn the way he was.
In the car, he stared out at Los Angeles rising—glass and ambition stacked high—but all he could think about was her.
Her power. Her silence. Her refusal to be swayed.
And somehow, without touching her, he already felt owned.
---
#Empty Rooms, Heavy Air#
The elevator opened with a soft chime.
Rowan stepped out, his shoes silent on the polished marble floors of Vale Capital. His stride was effortless, sharp, commanding—as always. But inside, a single thread tugged at his calm.
He wanted to see her.
He didn't know what he'd do if he did—offer a nod? A challenge? A smirk that said nothing and everything?
But she wasn't there.
The front desk was manned. The assistants were bustling. The glass walls revealed staff moving like clockwork… and yet, no Lila Penrose.
She wasn't at her desk.
Not in the boardroom.
Not lingering near the elevators like she did the other day, unbothered and untouchable.
He paused in front of his office, looking through the translucent frosted glass that now felt... too quiet. He didn't ask about her—he wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction. But something in him felt unusually off balance.
Was she sick?
Was she avoiding him?
Or worse... was he losing his edge?
He dropped his briefcase on his desk and loosened his tie—not because he was hot, but because the air felt tighter without her in it.
His phone lit up with numbers and deals and irrelevant names. He ignored them all.
Instead, he walked to the window.
Los Angeles sprawled before him—wild, bright, always moving.
But even from this height, the city felt smaller today.
Quieter.
Less alive.
Because she wasn't in it.
---
#A Fracture in the Pattern#
By noon, Rowan had checked his watch more times than he had all month.
Every meeting felt longer. Every voice in the boardroom—grating. Even Nico's teasing texts had gone unanswered.
He found himself staring at the seat she once took—when she first walked into that boardroom in red. That same chair now looked like a ghost's perch. Empty. Mocking.
He hated this.
Hated that a woman—a junior staff member—had somehow carved space in his mind he couldn't seal off.
She's not even here today. You don't care.
But he did.
It wasn't just her beauty, or that damn scent she wore that lingered after she passed.
It was the silence she carried. The restraint. The way she had made his boardroom feel like a stage... and he wasn't the lead.
And now?
Now her absence was louder than her presence.
He opened his laptop, staring at her file. His fingers hovered above the keys, then… without thinking, typed a message to HR:
"Check in on Penrose. Discreetly."
No subject line.
Just that.
He hit send.
And leaned back in his chair.
Seconds passed.
Then an alert blinked across the screen.
HR Response:
"Lila Penrose called in this morning. She's been unwell. Fever, chest tightness, dizzy spells. Said she didn't want to cause concern, just needs a day or two."
Rowan exhaled. Long. Sharp.
Sick?
His mind reeled—not with relief, but something dangerously close to... guilt.
Or maybe it was concern. But that was a feeling he hadn't had the luxury to indulge in for years.
He turned away from the screen, jaw tightening.
She was out there somewhere—sick, quiet, alone—and here he was, pacing the edge of obsession like a man with no anchor.
He wasn't supposed to feel this.
Not now.
Not for her.
But suddenly, the world felt far more fragile… without Lila Penrose in it.
---
#Boundaries, Blurred#
Rowan's hand hovered over the trackpad again.
The HR message stared back at him like a silent dare. "Fever, chest tightness, dizzy spells." Nothing fatal. Nothing alarming. Yet it felt like a cold punch in his gut.
He wasn't used to caring.
Caring made you reckless.
And reckless cost more than he was willing to pay.
But this wasn't about care—not really. This was about... control. About not liking unanswered questions. About wanting to see things for himself.
That's what he told himself anyway.
He stood, buttoned his jacket, walked out of the office. A few heads turned. No one stopped him.
His driver raised a brow when Rowan gave him the address from Lila's employment records—an upscale but modest apartment building nestled in Westwood.
"Wait here," Rowan muttered when they arrived.
He didn't bring flowers. Or soup. Or any of the comforting things people do when visiting the sick.
He brought silence, tension, and one heavy knock at her door.
No answer.
He knocked again. Sharper.
Still nothing.
He was about to turn away—embarrassed, what the hell am I even doing here?—when the door opened a few inches.
And there she was.
Lila.
Hair slightly disheveled. Wrapped in a loose cotton robe, skin pale and dewy with fever. She blinked slowly, confusion in her gaze. Eyes less sharp, but still watchful.
"Mr. Vale?"
Her voice was a whisper.
Rowan didn't speak right away. His heart beat faster, but he hid it behind a blank expression.
"I heard you weren't feeling well," he said, tone clipped. Businesslike. As if this was a quarterly check-in, not a spontaneous visit that broke every rule in his own book.
"You came all the way here… to check on me?" Her eyes narrowed, wary.
"I like to know that my team is functioning," he said, voice smooth but too quiet.
A beat passed.
Then she smiled.
Faint. Tired. But undeniably amused.
"And am I?" she asked, leaning lightly against the doorframe. "Functioning?"
Rowan looked at her. Just looked. No words, just a stare that lasted too long.
And then: "You will be."
He nodded once, stepped back, and turned to leave—his steps tight, his jaw tighter.
---
The door clicked shut.
And for a full minute, Lila didn't move.
She stood there, head tilted slightly, robe clutched tighter around her as if to shield herself from the chill… or the heat his presence ignited. Her fever hadn't spiked. That warmth between her ribs? It wasn't the flu.
It was him.
Rowan Vale.
At her door.
Checking on her like some twisted fever dream.
She should've laughed. Coughed. Shaken it off like she did every other impossible moment in her life.
But instead, she leaned back against the wood… and breathed.
His cologne still lingered in the air—a dark, masculine swirl of sandalwood and something warmer, richer… like the dusk before danger. The scent wrapped around her like an invisible tether, dragging her right back to that damn boardroom, to the way he stared at her, to the silence that said too much and not enough.
"God," she whispered. "You really came."
She didn't know what stunned her more: that he showed up, or that he left without crossing the line. No flirt. No compliment. Just that measured voice, that unreadable gaze, and the way her name didn't need to be spoken to feel heavy between them.
And now?
He was gone.
But the scent—the essence of him—still hung in her apartment like a haunting.
And Lila Penrose, who had battled rejection, heartbreak, a struggling career and more… suddenly found herself wrecked by something as simple as a visit.
No, not simple.
Because nothing about Rowan Vale was simple.
Not his voice.
Not his gaze.
Not even the way his footsteps vanished down her hallway, silent but felt.
She pressed her fingers to her lips and whispered again, this time more to herself than anyone else:
"You're trouble… and I might just be sick enough to want more."
---
#Silent Passenger#
The city passed in streaks of light outside the tinted window.
Rowan sat in the backseat, jaw tight, fingers drumming once against his knee before fisting into stillness. His driver said nothing—he knew better than to interrupt the kind of silence that came off Rowan Vale like pressure before a storm.
He hadn't planned to knock.
He hadn't planned to see her robe-clad, flushed with fever, eyes glassy but still glowing like fire on wet stone.
But he had.
And now?
Now her voice echoed inside him. Soft, surprised. Vulnerable.
"You came all the way here… to check on me?"
His fingers twitched. Her scent—mild vanilla, the kind that lingered longer than it should—clung to the air even now. Or maybe it was just memory, tormenting him with precision.
She hadn't asked him to stay.
She hadn't smiled the way other women did—grateful, flirty, expectant.
She'd smiled like she saw right through him.
And he hated that.
Hated that she didn't need to do anything to unnerve him.
He'd visited to confirm she was okay. That's all.
That was the story he would stick to.
But deep down, buried beneath discipline and tailored suits, he knew better.
He wasn't thinking like the CEO of Vale Holdings when he got into that car.
He was thinking like a man.
A man who hadn't touched her. Had barely spoken to her. But already—
Rowan exhaled.
Already she was under his skin.
---
#The elevator chimed#.
Rowan didn't look up right away. He was halfway through signing a contract, pen gliding across paper with surgical precision.
But then—something in the air shifted.
Like the subtle ripple before a wave crashes.
A faint floral note mixed with amber spice floated past his senses. Not her usual scent. Sharper. Bolder.
His eyes lifted.
And there she was.
Lila.
Back from her short sick leave like the fever had only sharpened her. She walked into the main floor of the executive wing with a pace too composed, too smooth—her hips swaying gently in the beige high-waisted trousers, the maroon silk blouse tucked in like power wrapped in elegance. Hair swept to the side, the newly blonde waves catching light. Lips a deep rose, barely curved.
Rowan swallowed—hard.
If she had looked fragile at her door, today she looked like temptation dressed in precision.
Unapologetically so.
She didn't even glance his way as she passed the glass office wall. Not a single look. Just a quiet confidence in her walk that made his pulse throb behind his watch strap.
"Morning, Lila," someone said. He didn't catch who. Didn't care.
She answered softly. Professionally. All business.
But Rowan saw the flick of her gaze—just once—as she turned down the hall. It brushed against him like a breeze and was gone before he could blink.
And yet…
His pen was still paused above the signature line.
His thoughts, already wrecked.
And her scent?
That damn scent was back. Stronger. Intentional.
She knows, he thought, his jaw tensing.
She knew what she was doing.
And the worst part?
He liked it.
---
Her Game, His Control
The Conference Room – 10:00 A.M.
The glass walls of the boardroom reflected ambition. Suits, screens, stats. Voices discussing numbers and projections. But no one was watching the graphs.
They were watching her.
Lila Penrose stood with her hands loosely clasped behind her back, posture tall, voice steady as the floor shifted to her. She didn't command attention. She demanded it—without trying. Her maroon blouse shimmered faintly with every move. Her blonde waves were pinned just loosely enough to appear accidental. But it was the way her eyes swept the room that kept them all hooked.
She didn't look at Rowan once.
And that was the strike.
He sat at the head of the table—sharp suit, cufflinks like polished steel. A predator in stillness. But his gaze never left her. Not once. Not even when she turned to adjust the screen or sip her water.
It was control meeting control.
Tension wound so tight around them it made the others breathe shallower, shift in their seats.
And when the meeting ended?
She thanked no one.
She simply nodded once, collected her files, and walked out—heels clicking a rhythm his mind wouldn't forget.
---
The Hallway – 10:48 A.M.
He didn't plan it.
But fate had always been a tease.
She rounded the corner, head slightly tilted, eyes focused ahead—and paused.
Rowan stood there, leaning near the window, hands in his pockets, sleeves rolled just enough to show veined forearms and a glint of silver watch.
Their eyes met.
Still no words.
Just silence thick enough to taste.
Her heels slowed, but she didn't stop.
He didn't move either.
They passed close—too close.
Her perfume hit first. A bold, smoky sweetness that clung to her skin like silk and sin.
His cologne wrapped around it like thunderclouds and leather.
For a single second—a single heartbeat—the space between them felt electric. Every nerve alive. Her gaze lifted, lips parted the slightest bit in that familiar not-a-smile. And he… he let his eyes rake down, slow and deliberate, as if mapping her curves was his birthright.
But still—no touch. No words.
Only war.
Only fire.
And just before she turned the corner, she glanced over her shoulder.
That look?
That look was lethal.
And Rowan Vale?
He was already losing the game.
---