The steam from the shower had turned the small ensuite bathroom into a humid sanctuary. For the first time since the "accident" with the watch, Avana felt the tension in her muscles begin to dissolve. The Canadian cold had been chased away by the scalding water, and in this one private moment, she allowed herself to forget the silver hawk crest, the sapphire collar around her neck, and the predatory blue eyes of Francis Slein.
She stepped out of the glass enclosure, her skin flushed a deep, healthy pink. She reached for a towel, but the rack was empty—she had forgotten that the linens were tucked in the mahogany wardrobe in the main bedroom.
In her old studio apartment, she lived in a world of solitude. There were no roommates, no prying eyes, and certainly no billionaire CEOs lurking in the shadows. Accustomed to the safety of her own skin, Avana didn't think twice. She pushed open the heavy bathroom door, stepping into the dim, moonlit bedroom completely bare.
The air in the bedroom was crisp, a sharp contrast to the steam she had just left behind. Water droplets clung to the curve of her shoulders and trailed down the center of her back. She walked toward the wardrobe, her movements fluid and unselfconscious, the youthful grace of her twenty-two-year-old body on full display in the silvery light.
She didn't hear the door open. The thick carpets of Slein Manor were designed to swallow footsteps.
"The tailor sent the—"
The voice stopped abruptly.
Avana froze. Her heart didn't just beat; it slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. She turned, her eyes widening in pure, unadulterated horror.
Francis Slein was standing three feet inside the room. In his hands, he held a garment bag containing a dress of shimmering midnight silk. But his hands were no longer moving. He stood as still as a statue, his silhouette carved out of the shadows of the hallway.
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, and heavy with a sudden, violent electricity.
For Francis, the world narrowed down to the girl standing in the center of the room. Since the death of his wife, he had lived in a desert of celibacy, surrounding himself with steel, glass, and the cold calculations of business. He had forgotten the soft, terrifying power of a woman's form.
His gaze, usually so controlled, betrayed him. It raked over her with a hunger that was almost palpable. He took in the damp, dark curls clinging to her neck, and then his eyes dropped. He saw her—really saw her. The firm, round swell of her breasts, rising and falling with her panicked breath; the narrow slope of her waist; the long, elegant line of her legs that he had only ever seen hidden beneath shapeless cleaning jumpsuits. She was perfection. She was a blueprint of a goddess, bathed in moonlight and damp with the remains of her bath.
Avana's brain finally caught up to the reality of her nakedness. A strangled gasp escaped her throat. She looked around wildly, but the wardrobe was too far, and her jumpsuit was a heap on the bathroom floor.
In a moment of pure desperation, she lunged toward the bed, diving under the heavy, charcoal-grey duvet. She pulled the silk-lined blanket up to her chin, her face burning with a heat that made the shower feel like ice.
"Get out!" she choked out, her voice a frantic whisper. "How could you just... you didn't knock! You can't just come in here!"
Francis didn't move. He stood there for several agonizing seconds, the garment bag trembling almost imperceptibly in his grip. His face was a mask of iron, but his pupils were blown wide, blackening the icy blue of his irises. The "Glacier" was melting, and the floodwaters were dangerous.
Finally, he blinked. He cleared his throat, the sound harsh and raspy in the quiet room. He forced his gaze upward, staring at the crown molding of the ceiling as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
"I don't knock in my own house, Dermis," he said. His voice was steady, but it was an octave lower than usual, thick with a suppressed tension that made the hair on her arms stand up.
He walked forward, his footsteps heavy and deliberate now. He reached the foot of the bed and threw the garment bag onto the mattress. The silk hissed as it landed near her feet.
"And next time," he continued, his tone turning biting, a defense mechanism against the vulnerability he had just felt, "have the decency to wrap yourself in something. This isn't a locker room at your university. I expect my employees to maintain a shred of modesty, even in their quarters."
Avana peeked out from over the edge of the duvet, her eyes stinging with humiliated tears. "I didn't think... I'm used to being alone."
Francis let out a cold, sharp huff that might have been a laugh if there were any humor in it. He looked down at her, his eyes raking over the bare, trembling shoulders that were still visible above the blanket.
"Do not flatter yourself," he snapped, the lie tasting like poison on his tongue. "Your body isn't exactly a masterpiece worth showing off. I've seen better-proportioned statues in the garden. You're thin, you're pale, and you look like a stiff breeze would snap you in half."
The insult hit her like a physical blow, but beneath the cruelty of his words, she saw the way his jaw was clenched so tight the muscles were jumping. He was lying. He was lying to her, or perhaps he was lying to himself.
"Wear the dress tomorrow," he commanded, turning toward the door. "The stylists will be here at noon. If you aren't ready, I will come back in here and dress you myself. And believe me, Avana, you won't like my choice of accessories."
He stepped out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the windows.
Avana collapsed back against the pillows, her heart still racing. She clutched the blanket to her chest, the scent of the duvet—sandalwood and expensive detergent—filling her lungs. She looked at the garment bag. She felt exposed, not just physically, but as if he had seen something inside her that she wasn't ready to give up.
Outside the door, Francis Slein stood in the darkened hallway, his hand still resting on the doorknob. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. He closed his eyes, but the image was burned into his retinas—the moonlight on her skin, the curve of her hip, the way she had looked at him with that mixture of terror and defiance.
"Masterpiece," he whispered to the empty air, his voice a jagged shadow of the man he pretended to be.
He let go of the door and walked toward his own suite, his footsteps no longer silent, but heavy with the weight of a desire that was fast becoming a madness.