Chapter 11 - Chapter 11:Their love confession

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

They sat outside on the balcony, the city lights stretching like stars below them.

Eric had loosened his tie, and Kiki was curled beside him, barefoot, wrapped in his jacket that hung far too big on her small frame.

She sipped from a mug of hot chocolate, sneaking glances at him.

"What?" he asked, catching her look.

"Nothing," she said quickly, smiling. "You just look… human for once."

He arched a brow. "That's the nicest insult I've ever received."

She laughed, soft and genuine. "I mean, you usually act like some kind of untouchable CEO robot. But right now? You look like someone who could actually—"

"Fall in love?" he finished quietly.

Her smile faltered. "…Yeah."

He turned toward her, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Then maybe I already have."

Kiki froze, her heart racing.

He wasn't joking.

She opened her mouth, but no words came. So instead, she leaned in and pressed her lips against his — sweet, slow, deliberate.

It wasn't about heat this time. It was about truth.

And for the first time since their worlds collided, Kiki realized she wasn't his captive anymore.

She was the only person who'd ever truly freed him.

The laughter that escaped Kiki's lips sounded fragile, like glass ready to shatter.

"It was just a mistake," she said again, softer this time—trying to convince herself more than him.

Eric didn't respond. He only watched her, those storm-grey eyes fixed on her face as though he could see every lie she told herself.

He stepped forward once. She stepped back.

But when his hand reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face, her heart betrayed her—skipping wildly inside her chest.

"Don't do that," she whispered.

"Do what?"

"Look at me like that."

"Like what?" His voice was low, almost dangerous.

"Like you… feel something you shouldn't."

His lips curved, not quite a smile. "Maybe I do."

Her breath caught.

Before she could reply, he stepped even closer, his presence surrounding her—his scent, his warmth, the quiet intensity that always seemed to swallow the air between them.

"You're making this complicated," she murmured.

He tilted his head. "Or maybe you're the one pretending it's simple."

Silence stretched—charged and unsteady. Then, unable to hold it anymore, she turned and hurried upstairs.

But that night, neither of them could sleep.

The following days were filled with an ache neither could name.

Kiki tried to keep her distance—burying herself in schoolwork, in conversations with Ryan, in anything that could drown out the memory of his lips on hers.

But every time her phone buzzed with a message from Ryan, every time she laughed at one of his jokes, she felt Eric's invisible eyes on her.

He'd appear in doorways, quiet but unreadable.

He'd ask small, meaningless questions just to keep her there longer.

And every time she smiled, something flickered behind his gaze—possession, frustration, maybe even jealousy.

One afternoon, she came home to find a box waiting on her bed.

Inside: a simple gold bracelet.

A note rested on top.

Don't lose this one. It's the first gift I've given without expecting anything in return.

— E.R.

Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.

She didn't know whether to smile or cry.

That night, she wore the bracelet to dinner.

When he noticed, his lips twitched slightly—but he said nothing.

Days later, fate twisted again.

A weekend party was being hosted at Kiki's college—Ryan had begged her to come.

She almost refused, but Eric insisted on driving her there, his tone calm, his jaw tense.

When they arrived, people turned, eyes wide.

Whispers again.

Kiki smiled awkwardly, thanked him, and slipped out of the car.

But as she disappeared into the crowd, Eric stayed parked a moment longer, staring after her.

He told himself he'd leave.

He didn't.

Inside the party, music thundered.

Ryan handed her a drink and leaned in to whisper something funny. She laughed—light, genuine, free.

And from the corner, hidden in the shadows, Eric saw it.

The sight of her smiling like that—at someone else—burned like a quiet fire in his chest.

When Ryan's hand brushed her arm, Eric stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor.

Back home that night, he couldn't shake the image from his mind.

The laughter.

The closeness.

The way she seemed to glow without him.

He poured himself a drink but didn't touch it.

Instead, he sat by the window again, staring into nothing.

Kiki returned home later than usual, slightly tipsy, humming to herself.

When she pushed open the door, she didn't expect to find him waiting in the dark.

"Eric?" she said softly. "Why are you—"

He turned, his eyes sharp in the dim light.

"Did you have fun?"

Her smile faltered. "It was just a party."

"With him?"

"Ryan's just a friend."

Eric stood, crossing the space between them. "Friends don't look at each other like that."

She frowned. "You're drunk."

"Maybe," he said. "But I'm not blind."

"Then what do you see, Eric?" she demanded, her voice shaking now.

He didn't answer. He simply reached out, cupped her face, and whispered, "Something I'm not supposed to want."

Her heart stuttered.

Before she could pull away, his thumb brushed her lower lip, and for a moment, the world fell silent.

Then she whispered, "Then stop wanting it."

He laughed softly—a broken, aching sound. "If only it were that easy."

That night, they didn't kiss.

They didn't need to.

The space between them was already on fire.

The next few days were quiet — too quiet.

Kiki tried to convince herself things were normal again.

She went to school, came home, ate dinner, smiled when she had to.

But every time she walked into a room and saw him there, her heart faltered.

Eric had changed.

He wasn't the same cold, calculating man she'd first met.

There was something softer in his eyes now — something he tried to hide but couldn't quite kill.

He still worked late, still barked orders over the phone, still kept that ruthless air of control.

But when she coughed, he brought her tea.

When she forgot her books, he had them delivered to her school.

When she laughed — genuinely laughed — his gaze lingered just a little too long.

It was confusing, infuriating, and addictive all at once.

One rainy evening, she found him in the library.

The fire crackled low, the smell of old paper and smoke filling the air.

He sat in the armchair, glasses sliding slightly down his nose, reading a contract.

For a man so terrifying, he looked strangely peaceful like that.

"Still awake?" she asked softly, stepping inside.

He looked up, startled — a rare thing for him.

"I could ask you the same."

She smiled faintly, walking closer. "You read law papers for fun?"

"Someone has to keep this house from falling apart," he murmured.

She tilted her head, teasing. "You mean from me?"

His lips curved. "You're chaos, Kiki."

"Maybe," she said, leaning against the desk. "But maybe you like it."

That earned her a slow, unreadable look.

Something flickered behind his eyes — something raw, almost tender.

He stood, setting the papers aside. "You should go to bed."

"Or you'll carry me there?" she challenged lightly.

He didn't move closer, but his voice dropped low.

"Don't tempt me."

The air between them thickened — alive, dangerous, magnetic.

She felt her breath hitch, her pulse racing wildly.

Then he turned away, breaking the moment. "Goodnight, Kiki."

She lingered a moment longer, her smile fading. "Goodnight… Eric."

After that night, their connection only deepened in the quietest ways.

He started joining her for breakfast, something he'd never done before.

They'd talk — about her classes, his travels, random things neither cared to remember later.

But somehow, those moments mattered more than anything else.

Sometimes, he'd catch her staring.

Other times, she'd find him watching her reflection in the glass when he thought she wasn't looking.

Every brush of their fingers felt heavier than a thousand words.

Every silence between them was charged with unspoken things.

One evening, she fell asleep on the couch while watching a movie.

When she woke up hours later, there was a blanket over her shoulders.

And on the coffee table — a cup of hot cocoa, still warm.

She smiled to herself, tracing the edge of the mug.

He would never admit it, but this was his way of caring.

Her chest ached in the best and worst ways.

The next morning, Eric drove her to school.

It was rare — usually, she refused his offers. But that day, the rain was too heavy, and he didn't give her the chance to say no.

The car ride was quiet, except for the soft hum of the engine and the faint sound of jazz on the radio.

She looked at him from the corner of her eye — the sharp jaw, the smooth control, the faint bruise under his eyes from too little sleep.

He noticed her staring.

"What?" he asked, eyes still on the road.

"Nothing," she murmured, smiling. "You just… don't look as scary in the morning."

He arched a brow. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

"Maybe," she said. "If you want it to be."

His lips curved slightly. "Careful, Kiki. You're getting too comfortable."

She chuckled softly. "Maybe you like that."

For a split second, he turned toward her — their eyes met, and something silent passed between them.

Then he looked back at the road, but the smile stayed.

Later that week, she brought him lunch at the company — something she'd never done before.

The staff stared like she'd walked in from a dream.

The feared CEO — sitting quietly while a girl placed a lunchbox on his desk.

She grinned. "I made it myself."

He raised a brow. "Should I call an ambulance first?"

She gasped. "Hey!"

He laughed — an actual laugh. The sound was low, rare, and made her heart flutter.

As he ate, she sat across from him, chin resting in her hand, just watching.

"You're staring again," he said without looking up.

"Maybe I'm studying my boss."

"Dangerous hobby."

"Maybe I like danger."

He finally looked up, eyes locking with hers. "You have no idea how true that is."

The air grew still again — that same pull, that same tension that neither could resist nor name.

That night, alone in her room, Kiki lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

She thought about his laugh, the way he'd looked at her, the way her heart no longer knew how to behave.

And across the hall, Eric sat by his window again — glass in hand, untouched.

The bracelet glimmered faintly on her wrist in his mind's eye.

He told himself he was in control.

He told himself she was still just his contract girlfriend.

But the truth was simple and terrifying.

Somewhere between the silence and the small smiles, between the jealousy and the laughter…

He had already fallen.