The applause crashed behind them the moment the ballroom doors swung shut, the noise collapsing into nothing as they stepped into the private lounge. The sudden quiet felt like being dunked underwater, every whisper and stare from the party fading at once.
Valentina let out the kind of sigh only someone who'd been socially tortured for an hour could produce.
"I swear," she grumbled, leaning back against the door, "if one more woman stared at me like I broke into the Louvre and stole the Mona Lisa, I was going to fling something expensive at someone. Preferably glass."
Adrian loosened his tie, finally looking a little less like a sculpted statue carved from stress. "You handled it better than I expected."
"Oh? A compliment? Wow. I'm going to need a second to emotionally process that."
He gave her a look that said he was already regretting bringing her here.
But she was already moving, crossing the room to the black marble bar, lit with a warm amber glow. It looked sinfully expensive. The whole lounge did. Plush couches, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittering beyond. And a stocked bar that made her feel spiritually seen.
She beamed. "We're drinking."
He stared. "Are we."
"Yes." She snatched two glasses. "Contest."
He blinked slowly. "A contest."
"A drinking one," she clarified, already reaching for the bottle like she'd been waiting for this moment her whole life.
He stepped closer, amused despite himself. "You think you can beat me?"
"I don't think." She poured. "I know."
"You're five feet tall and have no self-preservation instincts."
"Exactly," she said, sliding a glass toward him. "You're twice my size. More body mass means more alcohol required to get you drunk. Since you'll drink faster to prove a point, and because you're prideful in a tragic way… you lose."
He opened his mouth to argue. She lifted her glass first.
He sighed. "This is a terrible idea."
"Drink."
They clinked.
Round one went down smoothly.
Round two vanished even faster.
By round three, she was comfortably warm.
By round three, he was definitely overthinking the warmth hitting him.
By round four, he was blinking at his glass like it had personally betrayed him.
By round five, she was shrugging off the slight buzz like a champ, while he lowered himself onto the sofa in slow motion, as though gravity had just tripled.
"You okay?" she teased, swirling her next pour.
"I'm fine," he said, stiff and defensive, which absolutely meant he was not fine.
"Your face says otherwise."
"My face is completely normal."
"Mm-hmm."
He narrowed his eyes at her, swaying just slightly. "You're cheating."
"How. Enlighten me."
"You… handle alcohol too well."
"That's not cheating. That's trauma."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I don't think that's how biology works."
"Everything is biology if you say it confidently."
She tossed back another shot.
He followed.
Regretted it instantly.
She smiled like the devil. "I'll give you a chance to surrender gracefully."
"I'm not surrendering anything."
"You're adorable when you lie."
He glared, took another drink just to prove he could, then sank further into the cushions like his skeleton had given up.
Three more rounds passed.
Then another.
Then one more because she was feeling petty.
By the time she set her empty glass down with a victorious little tap, he was slumped against the sofa, dazed and blinking very slowly.
She lifted her chin. "I win."
He stared at her like she'd just broken a law of nature. "You should not be upright."
"Maybe you're just weak."
He scoffed, but it sounded tired. "I'm not weak."
"You lost to someone half your size."
"You're unreal."
"Thank you." She leaned back, smug and glowing with triumph. "Should we sign your official surrender form or—"
Her sentence froze.
Because he was watching her.
Not annoyed.
Not mocking.
Softly.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
Like someone seeing something he shouldn't want but couldn't stop wanting.
His eyes dropped to her mouth for a split second too long.
She felt it like a pulse in the air.
"What," she said quietly, suddenly unsure.
He didn't answer right away. His gaze traveled up from her lips to her eyes again, and when he spoke, his voice was low, warm, unguarded.
"You're really beautiful."
Her breath hitched. "You're drunk."
"And your lips," he continued like she hadn't spoken, "are… unnecessarily distracting."
She blinked at him. "My— my what now?"
"Your lips," he repeated. "They're plump."
She nearly choked. "Plump—?"
"Very." He leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room. "Plumpy."
"That's not even a real word."
"It is now."
She stared at him, unsure whether to laugh, scream, or throw her shoe at him.
"You sound insane."
"Maybe," he murmured. "Or maybe I've been staring at your mouth for three days straight and pretending I'm not."
Her entire body went still.
She didn't have a comeback. Not a single one.
He shifted closer, the couch dipping under his weight.
The air between them tightened.
"Valentina," he said quietly.
She swallowed. "What."
His eyes flicked down, just once, then back up.
"I want to kiss you."
Her hand twitched against her thigh. "Adrian…"
"I shouldn't," he said softly. "I know I shouldn't."
He paused.
"But I want to."
He leaned slightly closer.
She didn't move back.
His voice turned almost hesitant. "If you say no, I stop."
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
She closed it.
Tried again.
Still nothing.
He watched the silence stretch.
Watched her not push him away.
Watched her breath stutter and her fingers curl and her pulse jump at her throat.
Her silence said everything.
Something unravels in his expression.
Like permission.
Like gravity.
He shifted, slow, careful, as though giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
He moved closer.
Closer.
His breath brushed her cheek.
Her pulse hammered.
Her chest rose unevenly.
"Valentina…" he murmured, his lips a whisper from hers.
She still said nothing.
Her eyes didn't close, but they softened, her breath catching, her hand brushing instinctively against his sleeve as though anchoring herself to something real.
He understood.
He cupped her jaw gently, thumb brushing her skin.
And finally, finally, he leaned in—
And their lips barely touched.
Barely.
A ghost of a kiss, soft and light and almost not there at all, but somehow enough to knock the air out of both of them.
She inhaled sharply.
He froze, breath tangled with hers.
The moment stretched.
Charged.
Dangerous.
And just as his lips brushed hers a second time—