Mohamad stands at the glass again. Hong Kong stretches below—cold, geometric, contained. His hands settle on his hips. He tries to think through the irritation. On his desk, five candidate profiles lie open beside the Project Eve reports. Carefully selected. Optimized. Logical.
His gaze doesn't return to them. The image intrudes again. A small hand in his.
His jaw tightens. The same flash from the hospital. The moment the doctor announced Ace required a hysterectomy. The same inexplicable vision. He exhales slowly. Controlled. Irrelevant. But his mind pushes further. The image expands. His pulse quickens—unwanted. He tries to see it clearly. Define it. Categorize it. A child. No. Illogical.
His head snaps back toward the desk. He walks to it, forcing focus. Candidate one. Sofia Martinez. Age twenty-eight. Single. Intellectual property attorney. Global litigation record. IQ 148.
Nothing.
Candidate two. Dr. Amara Okafor. Age thirty-two. Theoretical physicist. Nobel nominee. Quantum specialization. IQ 154.
Nothing.
Candidate three. Dr. Elena Petrov. Age thirty-six. Director, Doctors Without Borders. Pediatrician. Yale professor. IQ 131.
Nothing.
His gaze shifts. Stops. Ai Chan Yeol.
Silence.
His eyes remain on her face. He remembers. The presentation. The moment her image filled the screen. The room had continued. The meeting had continued. But something had paused. He had added her himself. Almost three years ago. Before Akira. Before the club. Before any of this. Even then, she disrupted focus.
His jaw tightens. His gaze moves deliberately across the other candidates again. One by one. Nothing. Nothing.Nothing. Then back to her. The image returns immediately. The small hand. His hand. He stills. No.
This is projection. Residual stress. Reaction to trauma. Nothing more.
His expression hardens. He closes the file. But when his eyes lift again—they return to her face.
###
I spent the last two hours, starting at Anat's place before we both went to Beth's studio, explaining to Anat that I'm okay with and fully aware of the potential hurt that could come from my relationship with Mr. Silence.
"So... you're ok?" Anat asks.
"I am. Happier than I've been in a long time. I just want to enjoy this moment." If there's anyone who can understand my desire to be present, it's Anat. She always accuses me of not living in the present enough.
"Ah, fuck it! Tomorrow's not promised anyway. I'm glad you're happy—and I'll be here, no matter what." She squeezes my arm for emphasis
Thanking her, I excuse myself to go find Beth. If Anat's on my side, the others will follow suit. She's the most persuasive person in our group. Feeling relieved, I make my way through the growing crowds at Beth's private official mini showing of her summer collection in her studio office and showroom. Beth's talking to one of her regular patrons, a woman decked out in leopard print from head to toe, wearing Beth's designs from last year's various seasons.
Beth sees me approaching. "Ace, this is—" Beth points her hand palm up toward the woman.
I extend my hand as well, saying, "Mrs. Sow, it's nice to see you again."
Mrs. Sow grins at the recognition and shakes my hand gently, the way wealthy women greet one another, unlike businessmen's firm handshakes. "Hello, Ace, stylish as ever. Is that another one of Beth's silk dresses?"
"Yes, this was last year's summer collection." I intentionally coined the wrong season.
"No, that's her California Fall's. But it's a classic," Mrs. Sow corrects, eyeing me up and down while Beth beams proudly at her.
"Oh, you're right. Of course, you would know. Maybe it's a classic, so I forgot," I play along.
"It's nice seeing you," Mrs. Sow says to me, then turns to Beth and says, "Excuse me, I have some shopping to do." She heads toward the mannequins.
"Nice play," Beth remarks about my mismatch of the season.
"Hey..." I hesitate knowing how Beth feels about my relationship with Mr. Silence. "I... need you to custom-design four seasons' worth of clothes for me. I need them in different shades of solid colors... red, blue, black, cream, and neutrals. Sophisticated and elegant."
Beth's eyebrows lift as her dark irises fixate on me. My face heats up, expecting her judgmental tone to come next. When none comes after a while, I say, "I know it's not my usual color choice, but..."
Her focused silence makes me swallow hard as I fumble through my purse to find the white credit card.
"I don't really have a budget... you can just put what you need on this card...."
Beth's eyebrows slowly lower as her face relaxes. She glances at the card in my hand. "Is this the card they raved about?"
"They told you? Yeah, Karla cried after we ate for free at MM Restaurant."
Beth looks confused.
"Oh, yes, the white card. You've probably seen it in your line of work," I correct hastily.
"Nope. This would be the first." Beth takes the card and examines it as she walks away.
I guess this means she's taking the custom job?
###
I wake with my heart racing, a moan slipping into the darkness. His hand finds my breast, fingers rolling my nipple, tugging until it hardens under his touch. His other hand slips around my waist, angling my bottom against his front. Goosebumps ripple across my skin from the heat of his naked form pressed behind me. The pulled-down tank top clings to me, an unwelcome intrusion between us.
"Why are you wearing clothes in bed?" he snaps. The sharp edge in his tone quickens my pulses.
His hardness glides between my folds, deliberate and unhurried, teasing the aching emptiness within me. It goes across my slit. I gasp as my insides clench and release, coating him in slick warmth, my body answering his pulsating desire. His tip finds my most sensitive spot, the bundle of nerve at the tip of the slit, rubbing it and making me curl against him. He slides away, only to slam back against it delivering an electrifying surge of pleasant sensation through me.
"Nnn–I'm sorry–my love..." I murmur.
His hand switches to massaging my other breast while his tip presses harder into my small bundle of nerves, forcing a moan from me. "Nnnn... when did... when did you come in?" My insides clench, aching for him to fill the void.
He flips me onto my back with practiced ease, rips my tank top open, and yanks it off me. I try to make out his outline in the darkness. The red light flickers on. The house knows his presence and bath us in light.
He hovers above me, the anger I heard etched into the deep crease between his eyebrows, his piercing gaze, his lips pressed into a hard line, and his clenched jaw. But this anger feels different from the other times.
"I didn't know you were coming tonight. Jason usually—" I try to explain.
His lips crash into mine, capturing my lower lip and igniting all my nerves with a searing thirst. I whimper as he gathers my wrists and restrains them above my head. Then he lets go, and I know to keep them there.
His palms press into the bed on either side of me as his knee parts my legs. "How dare you say another man's name in our bed!" he growls in my ear as he shoves into me. My slippery arousal softens the force of his jabbing.
Expecting him to pump in and out at the fast pace that usually accompanies his intense emotions, I study his face as he becomes immobile once he's fully inside me. His eyes close, the creases between them deepen, and his features twist into a painful expression as he seems to hold his breath. His fingers spread, clawing into the bed, as if he's fighting his own desire to move. Then he lets out a calm breath as his fingers relax, and his eyes open.
His pulsating thickness slowly pulls out, but his tongue thrust in to meets mine. They twist and curl around each other, exploring every inch with desperate urgency—a tangled dance as they slide against one another, savoring every second of contact. My hip arches toward him, and my insides clench in panic, rebelling against his withdrawal. I lose when he separates our fluids. I swallow, my mouth watering in response to the void he leaves behind, as my core throbs with unbearable yearning.
"You've ruined me," he mutters against my lips, his voice rumbling like distant thunder—low, dark, and brimming with quiet fury.