The rest of Monday afternoon passed in a haze of mechanical movements. Isabella answered
emails, confirmed delivery schedules, smiled at Camille when she passed by the office door.
Every gesture felt borrowed from someone else's body. Inside, she was still standing in that dim
archive room, silk pooling around her ankles, Ethan's mouth branded on her throat.
She left the building at six thirty, earlier than usual. The coastal wind hit her face the moment
she stepped outside, sharp and cleansing. She walked the long way home, past the luxury
boutiques with their lit windows displaying gowns she could never afford, past couples laughing
over early evening cocktails on sidewalk terraces. She tried to let the city noise drown the
memory of his voice saying her name like a prayer and a threat at the same time.
By the time she reached her modest apartment building in the quieter district near the water, her
feet ached and her head pounded. She climbed the three flights of stairs, unlocked the door,
and stood in the small foyer without turning on the light.
The silence felt accusing.
She showered until the water ran cold, scrubbing her skin until it stung. When she stepped out
and wiped the steam from the mirror, the woman staring back had swollen lips and shadows
under her eyes that no concealer could hide.
She crawled into bed naked, pulled the sheet over her head, and willed sleep to come.
It didn't.
At two seventeen in the morning her phone lit up on the nightstand.
Unknown number.
She stared at the screen until it went dark, then lit again with a message.
I can still taste you.
Her stomach clenched.
Another message followed almost immediately.
Tell me to delete this number and I will. No questions. No contact. I disappear tomorrow.
She sat up, heart hammering against her ribs.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.She typed nothing.
The screen stayed silent for three full minutes.
Then:
I'm outside.
Isabella's breath stopped.
She moved to the window, pulled the sheer curtain aside just enough to see the street below.
A black SUV idled at the curb, headlights off. No markings. No vanity plate. Just sleek darkness
blending with the night.
The driver's window was tinted, impossible to see through.
She stood frozen, curtain pinched between trembling fingers.
The phone buzzed again.
Last chance. Say go away and I'm gone.
She stared at the words until they blurred.
Then she typed one word.
Come up.
She dropped the phone onto the bed like it burned her.
Thirty seconds later the buzzer sounded.
She pressed the release without speaking into the intercom.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Measured. Each one heavier than the last.
When the knock came, soft but certain, she almost didn't answer.
She opened the door barefoot, wearing only an oversized linen shirt that reached mid thigh.
Ethan stood there in the dim hallway light, jacket gone, shirt untucked, hair damp as though he
had walked through the night mist. His eyes were dark pools, pupils blown wide.Neither of them spoke.
She stepped back.
He stepped inside.
The door closed with a quiet click that sounded like a guillotine falling.
He looked around the small living room once, taking in the secondhand sofa, the stack of design
magazines on the coffee table, the single framed photograph of her parents on the bookshelf.
Then his gaze returned to her.
"You didn't run," he said.
"I should have."
"But you didn't."
She shook her head.
He took one step closer.
The space between them shrank to nothing.
He reached out, slow enough for her to stop him, and brushed the pad of his thumb across her
lower lip.
"You've been thinking about it," he murmured. "All day. Every second."
"Yes."
"Tell me what you thought about."
She swallowed. "Your mouth on my neck. Your hands pushing the silk up my thighs. The way
you looked at me like you wanted to devour me and save me at the same time."
His breathing changed, rougher now.
"I want both," he said.
He kissed her then, and it was nothing like the desperate collision in the archive.
This was slow. Deliberate. Devastating.He tasted like coffee and night air and barely leashed hunger. His tongue traced the seam of her
lips until she opened for him. When she did, he groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating
through her chest.
His hands slid under the linen shirt, palms flat against her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides
of her breasts. She arched into the touch.
He walked her backward until her spine met the wall beside the bookshelf.
The photograph of her parents rattled faintly.
She almost laughed at the absurdity of it, then the laugh died when he dropped to his knees.
He looked up at her, eyes burning.
"Tell me I can."
She threaded her fingers into his hair. "You can."
He pushed the shirt up, bunching it at her waist. His mouth found the soft skin just above her
hipbone first, kissing, nipping, leaving tiny red marks that would fade by morning. Then lower.
When his tongue touched her, she gasped so sharply it echoed in the small room.
He didn't rush.
He savored.
Long, slow strokes that made her thighs tremble. Circles that tightened until she was panting,
fingers clenched in his hair, hips rocking helplessly against his mouth.
He slipped one finger inside her, then two, curling them in a slow, deliberate rhythm that
matched the flick of his tongue.
Her knees buckled.
He caught her, one arm banded around her waist, holding her upright against the wall while he
devoured her.
The orgasm hit like a wave breaking over rocks, sudden and violent. She cried out, the sound
muffled against her own forearm because she didn't trust herself not to wake the entire building.
He didn't stop until the aftershocks faded.Only then did he rise, kissing his way back up her body, tasting every inch of skin he passed.
When he reached her mouth he kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue.
She moaned into his mouth, hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
He helped her, shrugging it off, letting it fall.
His chest was smooth, lightly dusted with dark hair that narrowed into a trail disappearing
beneath his belt.
She traced it with her fingertips, then followed with her mouth.
His stomach muscles jumped under her lips.
When she reached his belt he caught her wrists.
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because if you take me in your mouth right now I won't last thirty seconds and I need to be
inside you when I come the first time."
The words were raw, honest, almost reverent.
She nodded.
He lifted her easily, hands under her thighs, carrying her the short distance to the bedroom.
He laid her on the bed like she was something precious and breakable.
The linen shirt came off over her head.
He stood at the foot of the bed and looked at her for a long moment, eyes tracing every curve,
every freckle, every scar from the life she had lived before him.
"You're fucking beautiful," he said quietly.
She reached for him.
He undressed the rest of the way with quick, efficient movements.When he was naked he crawled over her, settling between her thighs.
He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper.
One hand slid between them, guiding himself to her entrance.
He paused there, tip just inside, eyes locked on hers.
"Last chance," he whispered. "Tell me to leave and I swear I'll go."
She wrapped her legs around his waist.
"Stay."
He pushed inside her in one slow, relentless glide.
They both groaned.
He was thick, stretching her in a way that bordered on pain and danced straight into pleasure.
He stilled when he was fully seated, forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard.
"God," he muttered. "You feel like home."
She clenched around him involuntarily.
He swore under his breath.
Then he began to move.
Slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive place inside her.
She met him thrust for thrust, nails scoring lightly down his back.
The rhythm built.
Faster.
Harder.
The headboard tapped the wall in steady protest.
Neither of them cared.He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, going deeper.
She cried out, the sound sharp and needy.
He covered her mouth with his hand, eyes blazing.
"Quiet, baby. We have to be quiet."
She bit the inside of his palm instead.
He growled, thrust harder.
Sweat slicked their skin.
The room smelled of sex and cedar and the faint salt of the ocean drifting through the cracked
window.
When she felt the next orgasm building she grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her.
"Come with me," she whispered.
His control snapped.
He drove into her with punishing force, once, twice, three times.
She shattered around him, inner muscles pulsing, pulling him deeper.
He buried his face in her neck and came with a low, broken moan, hips jerking erratically as he
emptied inside her.
They stayed locked together for long minutes, breathing in ragged harmony.
He kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
When he finally eased out of her she felt the warm slide of him between her thighs and
shivered.
He rolled to the side, pulling her against his chest.
She listened to his heartbeat slow.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Then he said, very quietly, "This changes everything.""I know."
"Are you sorry?"
She turned her face into his neck.
"No."
He exhaled, long and shaky.
"I didn't plan to come here tonight," he said. "I told myself I'd give you the night. Let you think.
But I couldn't breathe knowing you were alone with this."
She traced the scar above his eyebrow with one fingertip.
"How long have you wanted this?"
"Since the moment you stepped off the elevator that first day." He kissed her forehead. "Maybe
longer. Maybe since I was old enough to understand what wanting someone really meant."
She closed her eyes.
"We can't tell anyone," she whispered.
"I know."
"Your mother…"
"I know."
The weight of it settled between them like a third presence in the bed.
He tightened his arm around her.
"We'll be careful," he said. "We'll be smart. But I'm not giving this up. Not now. Not ever."
She didn't answer.
She wasn't sure she could promise the same.
But she didn't pull away.
They fell asleep tangled together, skin cooling, hearts still racing.At four forty seven the phone on the nightstand lit up again.
Camille.
Incoming call.
Isabella's eyes snapped open.
Ethan stirred, saw the screen, and went still.
The phone vibrated against the wood, insistent.
Isabella stared at her best friend's name glowing in the dark.
Ethan reached past her, thumb hovering over the decline button.
She caught his wrist.
"Don't."
He looked at her, eyes shadowed.
She let the call go to voicemail.
The silence that followed felt heavier than any sound.
Camille's voice came through the speaker a moment later, calm but edged with something
sharp.
"Isabella, it's me. I know it's late. Or early. Whatever. The Milan shipment just cleared customs.
They're loading the truck now. I need you in the office at six. We're doing an emergency fitting
for the gala gown. I'm sorry for the hour but we can't lose the momentum."
A pause.
"I hope you're sleeping. See you soon."
The message ended.
Isabella stared at the ceiling.
Ethan pressed his lips to her shoulder."We have ninety minutes," he said.
She turned to him.
"We should shower. Separately. You leave first. I'll follow in twenty minutes."
He nodded.
But neither of them moved.
Instead he kissed her again, slow and deep, tasting of goodbye and promise and inevitable
disaster.
When they finally separated, the sky outside had begun to lighten, gray bleeding into rose.
He dressed in silence.
She watched from the bed, sheet pulled to her chest.
At the door he paused.
"I'll see you at six," he said.
She nodded.
He left.
The apartment felt colder the moment the door closed.
Isabella sat there for several minutes, listening to the quiet.
Then she stood, walked to the bathroom, and turned on the shower.
Hot water hit her skin.
She closed her eyes and let it wash away the evidence of the night.
But she knew.
Some things could never be washed clean.
Some marks went straight through to the bone.
And some fires, once lit, refused to die.She stepped out of the shower, dressed in yesterday's clothes because she had no time to
choose anything else, and looked at herself in the mirror one last time.
The woman staring back had kiss bruised lips, love marks on her throat, and eyes that belonged
to someone who had just stepped off the edge of a cliff.
She didn't know whether she was falling or flying.
But she knew she was no longer afraid of the ground rushing up to meet her.
She grabbed her bag, locked the door behind her, and stepped into the pale morning light.
The city was waking up.
So was the scandal.
And neither of them would wait.