Adrian Wolfe's Penthouse – 10:26 p.m.
The penthouse lights glowed low — minimalist, masculine, sterile.
The sound of jazz murmured from the speakers in the ceiling, but it did nothing to distract Adrian Wolfe.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tumbler of whiskey untouched in his hand. His Rolls-Royce key sat on the glass table behind him. He hadn't turned on the TV. Hadn't opened a file.
He was still… thinking about her.Talia Brooks.
He hated that he remembered her name. But even worse — he remembered her walk.
The determined curve of her spine as she trekked down that cracked sidewalk, her uniform clinging faintly to her back. The wind tugged strands of hair loose from her bun.
The way her blouse — modest, plain — couldn't quite hide the gentle, natural curve of her chest.
Her lips, full and bitten raw from holding back emotion. The faint blush on her cheeks from either shame… or anger.
There was something about her.
Not polished. Not seductive. But real. Unprocessed.
Like she hadn't yet learned how to weaponize her beauty — and that made it worse.
He had seen women far more dressed, far more confident; throw themselves at him with false smiles.
But this one?
She flinched when he looked. Spoke only when forced.
And walked home in worn shoes instead of asking anyone for help.
And yet—
when she stood in front of him, looking terrified but refusing to shrink…
She stirred something he didn't like feeling.
Adrian dropped into the leather chair and exhaled slowly.
Disgusted — not with her.
With himself.
His thumb brushed the rim of the tumbler, slow, rhythmic. He didn't desire weakness.
But he couldn't stop imagining:
The softness of her skin under his palm.
The way her throat had fluttered when he snapped at her.
The flicker of stubbornness in her eyes, even as she obeyed.
Innocent.
That's what it was.
That's what undid him.
He growled low under his breath and downed the whiskey in a sharp gulp.
She's just a cleaner. A girl who'll be gone in weeks.
Don't look again. Don't think again.
But his eyes drifted to the security tablet beside him. He could pull up her employee ID. Just one click. He didn't. But he hovered. And the tension coiled deeper.
The front door opens.
CASSANDRA, stunning, sharp, and always composed, steps in, heels echoing against the polished floors.
"I used my key. Hope that's still allowed."
Adrian shifts, the flicker of Talia vanishing from his face.
"You never needed permission." without looking
She drops her coat on the chair and walks over to him. She's wearing a silk dress intentional. Everything she does is intentional.
"You're brooding. That's never a good sign."
She stands over him. He leans back. She climbs onto his lap, straddling him slowly, her perfume filling the space between them. Her lips brush his neck.
"Let me make you forget whatever's eating you." She whispered.
His hands rest on her waist, gripping her like he's trying to remember what it feels like to want her. She kisses him—slowly, possessively.
They melt into each other. Heat rises.
But for a half-second, when he closes his eyes…
He sees Talia's face.
Eyes wide. Alone in a building that didn't want her.
He opens his eyes abruptly.
"Still distracted?" she noticed.
"Just tired." He said flatly.
"Then let me help you sleep."
She leads him toward the bedroom, her silhouette graceful and certain. Adrian follows—but the tension lingers in his jaw, in his shoulders, in the drink left untouched on the table.
And outside, beyond the glass, the city pulses oblivious.
WOLFE'S PENTHOUSE – MASTER BEDROOM – MORNING
Soft light spills through the large window. The sheets are tangled. CASSANDRA lies in bed, barely covered, her hand stretched across to the other side…
Empty.
She stirs, sits up, and brushes a hand through her tousled hair. Her eyes land on the half-empty glass of whisky still sitting on the table by the couch. She frowns.
ADRIAN stands by the marble counter, already dressed in a crisp white shirt and slacks. His sleeves are rolled, collar unbuttoned. He stares out the window, cup of black coffee untouched beside him.
"You didn't stay."
He turns. She's leaning against the doorframe, loosely wrapped in his shirt.
"Didn't sleep." He answered.
"Funny. You looked very... involved last night." smiling slightly
"Didn't say I wasn't. Just not restful." Said dryly.
She watches him. There's coldness in his tone. Not unfamiliar—but sharper. Distant.
"This is about work, isn't it?"
"It's always about work." He beats.
She walks toward him, slow, calculated, and seductive. She leans in, runs her fingers over the back of his neck.
"Then tell me—what project is keeping you this tense? Should I be worried?"
Adrian meets her eyes. For a split second, there's a hesitation.
"No. You have nothing to worry about." She said flatly.
But the lie hangs in the air like cologne after someone has left.
Cassandra leans closer, kisses his cheek. She holds him a little longer than usual. Her voice drops—intimate, but with an edge.
"Good. Because I don't share well."
She smiles, but her eyes sharpen—searching him.
He kisses her forehead mechanically.
"Go back to bed. I'll have the driver take you home later."
As he turns away, she watches him, the smile slowly fading from her lips.
Then she said to herself,
"He's here. But somewhere in that silence..." Top of Form