The drive home should have been quiet. My driver said nothing, the city lights blurred past, and the hum of the engine was steady enough to lull anyone into calm. But not me.
My jaw was tight, my fingers drumming against my knee in a restless rhythm. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her—Lyra—standing on that balcony, looking at me with eyes too wide, too curious, too unguarded.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
She was Elijah's sister. The one person who should have been untouchable. The one line I swore never to cross.
I loosened my tie, exhaling sharply as though the silk itself was strangling me. I'd worked my entire life building walls—around my company, my image, my heart. Walls that had kept me focused, disciplined, ruthless when I had to be. And yet, one girl with stubborn eyes and a voice that lingered in the back of my mind was enough to make those walls crack.
By the time I got home, the penthouse was dark, the silence heavy. I dismissed the staff for the night and wandered into my office, pouring myself a glass of whiskey I didn't even want. The amber liquid swirled in the glass, catching the dim light, and all I could think about was her laugh—soft, unpolished, genuine in a way that didn't belong in my world of polished deals and boardroom games.
I downed the drink in one gulp. It burned going down, but not enough to silence the ache clawing at me.
The truth was, I didn't just want her. Wanting would have been simple—physical, fleeting, something I could bury in the anonymity of nights that didn't matter. But Lyra wasn't forgettable. She wasn't the kind of woman you left behind. And that terrified me more than anything.
My phone buzzed. A message. Elijah.
"Good to see you tonight, brother. Thanks for coming."
I stared at the screen, guilt tightening my chest. He trusted me. He had brought me into his family, treated me like blood when mine had long since abandoned me. And what was I doing in return? Thinking about his sister in ways I had no right to.
I set the phone down with a hard thud against the desk.
"Pull yourself together," I muttered under my breath.
But when I leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes, the memory of her voice slipped through again—hesitant, almost shy, but carrying an edge that promised more.
And I knew, no matter how much I fought it, this wasn't going away.
Not tonight. Not ever.