Chapter 27 —
POV: Lyra
The hotel's presidential suite was too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that meant peace.The kind that made your skin aware of itself.The kind that felt… staged. Like the city outside, with its endless stream of lights and sounds, had agreed to hold its breath—just to watch me trip.
Except, I didn't misstep.
I never misstep.I owned the floor I walked on, the marble tiles almost clicking in rhythm with my heels as if they knew their place beneath me.
Kieller lounged on the chaise near the balcony like he owned oxygen. His jacket was tossed carelessly across the armrest, shirt half-unbuttoned, his posture just shy of criminal arrogance. One long leg bent, the other stretched out like a trap you'd step into without noticing until it was too late.
And of course—he was drinking my wine. The deep red glowed in the glass, rich and almost black under the suite's warm lighting. He swirled it slowly, savoring it in that infuriating way of his, as if it had been his since birth, as if the vineyard had only ever existed to serve him.
Behind him, the evening skyline burned with a thousand expensive lies. Towers glittered, traffic hummed, and somewhere below, a city full of teeth smiled in the dark.
"You're late," he drawled, not even looking at me. His voice was lazy, dripping with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing you didn't need to raise your tone to be obeyed.
"And you're in my chair," I replied, my voice cutting through the air like glass. I tossed my clutch onto the marble table; the sharp sound made him finally lift his head.
Those eyes—colder than steel, sharper than diamonds—tracked me as I crossed the room. They didn't just look. They calculated. Measured. And worst of all… remembered.
I poured myself another glass, letting the slow glug of the wine fill the silence until it felt almost indecent.
"I saved you from Gray's little stunt today," he said, tone still maddeningly casual.
"No," I corrected, swirling my glass, "you saved your deal with NexaTech. I was collateral damage you decided to drag out of the fire for the PR optics."
The corner of his mouth lifted, slow and knowing. "You wound me."
I took a slow sip. "Not yet."
Something flickered in his gaze—amusement, maybe, or the thrill of a challenge. I turned away before I could decide which.
The balcony doors were open, letting in the night air, cool and threaded with the faint scent of rain on hot pavement. I stepped out, the city sprawling beneath me like a chessboard. From up here, it almost looked harmless. Almost.
But I knew better. Monsters didn't just live in the shadows. They wore silk ties, tailored suits, and smiled for cameras. Some of them were standing right behind me.
The sound of footsteps—measured, unhurried—told me he'd followed. He stopped just close enough that the heat of his body bled through the cool wind. The fine hairs on the back of my neck lifted.
"You're plotting something," he murmured, his voice low enough that the night itself had to lean in to hear.
"Always," I replied without turning my head.
"And you're not going to tell me?"
"Of course not."
That earned me a quiet chuckle, the kind that felt less like laughter and more like a blade being drawn.
The space between us thrummed with unspoken things. Dangerous things. The kind that could topple empires if spoken aloud.
He shifted slightly, and I caught his reflection in the glass—sharp jaw, eyes like storm fronts, and that unbearable air of someone who'd win even if it meant burning the board.
Then his phone buzzed.
He didn't move for a moment. Just stood there, letting it vibrate in his pocket, before finally pulling it out and glancing at the screen.
The change was instant. The easy arrogance cooled into something leaner, darker. His expression shuttered, and for a heartbeat, I saw the predator underneath.
"What?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away. He just looked at me—really looked—like he was deciding whether I was a liability or an asset in the next five minutes.
Then, finally, "Someone just broke into our suite downstairs."
My grip on the glass tightened, the stem a heartbeat away from snapping. "Ours?"
He smirked again—slow, deliberate, and designed to annoy. "You heard me."
That single, infuriating word carried too much weight. Too much assumption. Too much him.
I should've thrown the wine in his face. The arrogance of claiming me without asking, the casual way he slipped ownership into his sentences like it was as natural as breathing—infuriating.
But instead… I felt that rush. The one that only comes when the game changes mid-play.
Danger. Suspense. And the thrill of knowing that if someone had breached our space, it wasn't just random. It was a move.
I stepped closer, tilting my head so my hair slid over one shoulder. "And what exactly do you plan to do about it?"
His gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second—too fast for most people to notice, but I wasn't most people. "Whatever I want."
The answer was pure Kieller—arrogant, unapologetic, and dripping with the kind of dominance that dared you to challenge it.
I smiled, slow and dangerous. "Then try not to make a mess. Bloodstains are hard to get out of marble."
He chuckled again, that same infuriatingly low sound, before slipping his phone into his pocket and brushing past me toward the door. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air between us—rich, expensive, and somehow sharper in moments like this.
I followed. Not because I needed to. Because I wanted to. And that was far more dangerous.
The elevator ride down was silent, the kind of silence that doesn't need words because both people already know they're walking into something that could turn ugly.
When the doors slid open, we stepped into the hallway of the lower suite—his claimed one. The door was ajar. Light spilled out in a thin, accusatory line across the carpet.
I glanced at him. He didn't look back, but the edge in his jawline told me everything.
Whatever game had started tonight—it was just beginning.
And I had no intention of losing.