Sofia
The morning after was a battlefield, not of sheets and tangled limbs, but of unspoken words and a chilling silence. Max had moved through the penthouse like a phantom, his earlier raw intensity replaced by an impenetrable shield. "Stay here," he'd murmured, his voice as flat and smooth as the polished marble floor. "I need to... make some calls."
It was a dismissal, thinly veiled. A stark contrast to the desperate grip he'd held me in just hours before. The warmth of his body, the intoxicating scent that still clung to my skin, felt like a cruel trick, a mirage of intimacy that had vanished with the dawn.
I watched him go, the bathroom door closing with a soft click that echoed like a slammed door in my heart. The shower ran, a steady drumbeat against the silence, washing away not just the physical evidence of our night, but perhaps, I feared, the very memory of it for him. He emerged, impeccably dressed, the tailored suit a uniform of detachment. The man who had been so utterly consumed, so vulnerable in the throes of passion, was gone, replaced by the Max I knew — cold, controlled, and utterly unreadable.
He made his "calls," a low murmur of words I couldn't discern, his back to me as he paced the vast living room. Each step seemed to take him further away, not just physically, but emotionally. I felt like a discarded garment, left on the rumpled bed while he moved on to more important matters. The lingering warmth in my own body felt like a betrayal, a testament to a connection he seemed determined to sever.
A knot tightened in my stomach. Was I just a means to an end? A temporary escape, a strategic play, as he so often described his dealings? The thought was a bitter taste in my mouth, clashing with the sweet memory of his lips on mine. I had felt so seen with him, so desired, even if only for a few fleeting hours. Now, I was just... there. An inconvenient presence.
He finally turned, his gaze sweeping over me, devoid of the lingering heat I craved. "I'll be out for a while," he stated, his voice even, almost clinical. "Don't leave the apartment. It's for your safety."
Safety. The word hung in the air, a flimsy curtain between us. He was protecting me, he claimed, but from what? And at what cost to us? To me? The thought of Mark, the reason for this sudden, intense proximity, brought a shiver, but it was nothing compared to the chill that radiated from Max.
I wanted to ask him, to demand answers, to pull him back into the reality of what we'd shared. But his eyes, cold and distant, dared me to try. He was already gone, his mind miles away, plotting and strategizing, while I was left in the echoing silence of his luxurious prison, a pawn in a game I barely understood, desperately clinging to the fading echo of a passion he seemed so eager to forget.