The smell of freshly brewed coffee stirred Emma from sleep.
She blinked slowly, sunlight warming the sheets tangled around her legs. For a moment, she forgot where she was. The high ceiling, the soft hum of distant traffic, the faint scent of Zane's cologne still on the pillow beside her—it all came rushing back.
Last night.
His words. His touch. His refusal.
"Tomorrow, we begin."
She sat up, pulling the silk sheet against her chest as if it could shield her from the whirlwind inside her head. What was happening to her?
What was happening between them?
She stepped into the robe laid neatly on the end of the bed—another one of his silent gestures—and followed the scent into the kitchen.
Zane stood barefoot, sleeves rolled up, cracking eggs into a pan like some kind of domestic illusion. The sight of him cooking felt surreal. This was the man who once told her emotions were weaknesses, and yet here he was making breakfast like a lover.
He didn't look up. "You're late."
Emma crossed her arms, voice groggy. "I wasn't aware I was expected."
"You're always expected."
She watched him move—efficient, calm, in control even when doing something as ordinary as flipping eggs. "You cook?"
Zane gave the barest shrug. "I prefer precision. And I don't like strangers in my space."
Emma approached the marble island cautiously. "Do I count as a stranger?"
His eyes flicked up, locking onto hers. "Not anymore."
Something inside her twisted.
He slid a plate toward her: eggs, toast, avocado, sliced fruit. Healthy. Balanced. Intentional.
Everything with him always was.
She picked up the fork but didn't eat. "Is this part of the contract?"
"No." He paused. "This is part of me."
They ate in silence, but the air buzzed with unspoken things.
Halfway through her meal, he reached across the island—slowly—and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Emma froze.
His fingers lingered a second too long. Not possessive. Not commanding.
Gentle.
Affectionate.
And somehow… that felt more dangerous than anything he'd done before.
Her voice trembled. "Why are you being like this?"
Zane leaned on the counter, eyes darker than morning should allow. "You think kindness is manipulation."
She looked away. "Isn't it?"
"No," he said. "It's risk."
She laughed softly, bitter. "You don't seem like the kind of man who takes risks."
"I don't," he replied. "But somehow, here you are."
Emma stood abruptly, pushing the stool back. "This isn't what I signed up for."
Zane tilted his head. "What did you sign up for, Emma?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Sex.
Power.
A game.
But now?
Now there were cracks in the surface. Questions forming. Emotions blooming in places she didn't expect. And Zane… he wasn't just a billionaire with a contract anymore. He was something real. Something raw.
And she didn't know how to handle that.
"I need air," she muttered.
Zane didn't stop her. Didn't follow.
But his eyes stayed with her long after she left the room.
Emma leaned against the glass of the balcony, arms folded against the cool breeze. The city below was alive—cars humming, sirens in the distance, people living lives untouched by contracts or power games.
She envied them.
Her thoughts swirled like the wind in her hair. She didn't want this to be complicated. She wanted it to stay physical. Cold. Easy.
But Zane was none of those things.
She didn't hear him come up behind her—again.
"I don't usually explain myself," he said.
Emma turned, startled. "Then don't start now."
"I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for me."
His voice was low, almost bitter. He stepped closer, his presence wrapping around her like heat. "I've built walls that don't crack. And now, one glance from you and they tremble."
Emma held her breath. "Why me?"
Zane's eyes scanned her face like he was searching for something buried deep. "Because you don't pretend. Not with me. And I hate that… but I need it."
They stood there, inches apart, the wind pressing fabric to skin. The world had narrowed to this moment, this breath.
His hand rose—hesitating—then rested gently on her cheek.
Emma didn't move.
His thumb brushed her lower lip.
She trembled.
"You're dangerous," he said softly.
Her voice cracked. "Because I want to understand you?"
"No," Zane whispered. "Because part of me wants to let you."
Emma reached up and gripped his wrist. Not to pull away—but to ground herself. The skin-on-skin contact sent sparks up her arm.
She whispered, "You don't have to be alone in this."
That did it.
Zane kissed her.
It wasn't rough. It wasn't rehearsed. It was full of heat and something unspoken—something raw and terrifying. His lips pressed against hers with hunger, but also hesitation. He tasted like coffee and midnight, like control slipping.
She kissed him back, fiercely.
Their bodies pressed together. His hand tangled in her hair. Her fingers found his chest, then his jaw, then his mouth again. It was like a dam breaking. Like fire. Like drowning.
But just as fast as it started, he stopped.
Zane pulled away, breathless, his forehead resting against hers. "I can't," he muttered. "Not yet."
Emma looked up, lips parted, heart racing. "Why?"
He didn't answer.
Because the truth would cost too much.
Instead, he touched her face one last time and walked back inside—shoulders tense, breath uneven, like a man running from his own hunger.
Emma stood on the balcony, stunned, the ghost of his kiss still burning on her lips.
He had pulled away. Again.
Not out of disinterest—she could feel the tension in his breath, see the storm in his eyes. No, this wasn't rejection. It was fear.
He was afraid of her.
Afraid of what she meant.
Afraid of what this was becoming.
She walked back inside, her legs unsteady. The penthouse was silent again, but not empty. His presence lingered like heat in the walls.
Zane was nowhere to be seen. The door to his study was, as always, closed.
This time, Emma didn't try to open it.
Instead, she walked to the bedroom, unfastened the robe, and slipped back into bed. She stared at the ceiling again, but this time the silence wasn't oppressive—it was heavy with something new.
Hope.
It terrified her.
Because she'd started to see past the mask.
And worse, he had started to let her.
Her fingers touched her lips absentmindedly, remembering the way his mouth had moved over hers—not with cruelty, not with control, but with something closer to longing.
That kiss wasn't about dominance.
It was about surrender.
And Emma knew, without a doubt, that when Zane Sinclair surrendered, even for a second, the world shifted.
Her world already had.
She turned to her side, pulled the silk sheets up to her chin, and closed her eyes.
Sleep didn't come easy.
But when it did, it was filled with flashes of fire, the echo of his voice, and the taste of something she hadn't known she was starving for—
Touch.
Real, human, terrifying touch.