The backseat of the town car smelled like leather and high-end cologne. Anna watched the blur of Manhattan through the tinted windows, her heart pounding so hard she pressed her palm against her chest to steady the rhythm.
What was she even doing?
The driver said nothing, but he didn't have to. Men like Victor always had people trained to keep their mouths shut, eyes averted—professionals in the art of discretion.
Her phone buzzed.
Almost there?
She stared at the message, thumb hovering above the screen. She could still back out, tell the driver to turn around, crawl back into bed beside Alexander, pretend this reckless idea never crossed her mind.
But her body had already made the decision.
Yes.
The car stopped in front of a sleek glass tower in Tribeca. No doorman rushed over, no flashing cameras waiting. Just quiet wealth, the city humming softly in the night air.
Her heels clicked on the pavement as she stepped out, summer air thick around her like electricity. She looked up at the building, sharp edges, glowing windows and wondered which one was his.
Inside, the lobby was a study in minimalism. Polished concrete floors, modern art on the walls, and a lone attendant behind a marble desk who nodded at her like he'd been expecting her all along.
"Mr. Roman is on the top floor," he said smoothly. "Elevator to your right."
No questions. No judgement. Just an open door to a choice she couldn't undo.
The elevator ride stretched on longer than she thought it would. Her reflection stared back from the mirrored walls—hair a little tousled from the quick change, mascara perfect but eyes wild, desperate. She looked away.
The doors slid open.
She stepped out into the open sky.
Victor's penthouse wasn't cold like Alexander's palace. It was glass and steel, modern and unapologetic. But the rooftop terrace? That's where he really lived. Wide open space with glass railings, Manhattan sparkling in every direction, a sea of lights and possibility. Jasmine plants lined the edges, their scent drifting on the warm breeze.
And there he was.
Victor leaned against the railing, a glass of whiskey in hand. The city lights bathed him in gold, turning his hair molten, his profile sharp and perfect. A white button-down with sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone. Casual. Confident. Dangerous.
He turned when he heard her heels.
His grin was slow, wicked. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
Anna forced a breath. "Neither was I."
He raised his glass toward the skyline. "But you're here. So what does that tell us?"
"That I'm reckless."
"Or brave." He pushed off the railing, stepping closer. "There's a difference."
She stayed frozen, afraid if she moved, she'd lose the last shred of control she had.
Victor stopped a few feet away, studying her. "You look ready to run."
"Maybe I am."
"Then why did you come?"
The question hung between them. Anna opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say? That Alexander's coldness had frozen her from the inside out? That she was tired of being treated like a possession? That Victor made her feel alive in a way she'd forgotten?
She settled for honesty. "I don't know."
His smile softened. "That's the most honest thing you've said to me."
He moved to a bar cart near the terrace's edge, poured her a whiskey neat, just like his—and crossed back, holding it out.
"To reckless decisions," he said.
Their fingers brushed as she took the glass, and a jolt shot through her that had nothing to do with the summer heat.
"To reckless decisions," she echoed, tasting the burn that grounded her.
Victor watched her over the rim. "You know, from up here, the city looks different. Freer."
She turned to the view. He was right. Down below, Manhattan was noise, cameras, judgment. Up here, it was light, sky, endless possibility.
"Beautiful," she admitted.
"I wasn't talking about the skyline."
Her breath caught. She met his steady, unflinching gaze.
"You shouldn't say things like that," she whispered.
"Why not? It's true."
"Because I'm married."
"To a man who sees you like a chess piece." His voice dropped, raw around the edges. "I've seen the way he looks at you, like you're something to own, something to control."
Her chest tightened. She wanted to defend Alexander, play the perfect wife, but the words wouldn't come.
Victor set his glass down, stepped closer. "You deserve more than that."
"You don't know me."
"I see you. That's enough." His gaze softened. "I saw you tonight at the premiere, smiling for the cameras, playing the part. But when you thought no one was watching, when you looked away, there was something in your eyes. Longing. Like you were drowning under all that perfection."
Her heart hammered. She gripped the glass tighter, afraid to drop it.
"That's the woman I can't stop thinking about," Victor said. "The one beneath the mask."
"Victor." Her voice was breathless, a warning and a plea.
He was so close she could feel his warmth, smell whiskey and the salt air on his skin. His hand brushed the railing near hers—not touching, but close.
The air between them buzzed, electric.
"You deserve to be wanted," he murmured. "Not as a trophy. Not as an object. Just as you."
Her eyes burned. When was the last time anyone looked at her like that? Like she mattered beyond her name, her connections, her smile?
"I can't," she whispered. But even as she said it, her body leaned in.
"You can." His voice was low, coaxing. "You just have to choose."
She should step back. Remember Alexander's warnings, Dolly's tears, the cost of scandal. But Victor's gaze held her: warm, hungry, impossibly alive.
"Tell me to stop," he said softly. "Say you don't want this, and I'll let you go. No pressure."
Her pulse roared. Her lips parted but no words came.
Victor leaned in.
Slowly. Deliberately. Giving her every chance to pull away.
His breath brushed her lips, warm, intoxicating. The city faded. The noise, the cameras, the judgment. The world shrank to inches between them, the heat of his body, the wild pounding of her heart.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
For one suspended, breathless moment, she let go.
Then reality slammed back.
"No."
The word tore free, sharp as glass.
She jerked back, gasping, hand to her mouth as if she could catch that almost-kiss and shove it back into the realm of what never happened.
Victor froze. His jaw flexed, but he didn't chase. He just watched her with a look that was understanding.
"Not tonight, then," he said quietly. No anger. Just rueful acceptance.
Her chest heaved. Her whole body trembled with everything she denied, everything she still wanted.
She turned toward the elevator, legs shaky but moving.
"Anna."
She stopped, but didn't turn.
"This isn't over," Victor said. "You know that, right?"
She did know. And that scared her.
Without a word, she stepped inside. The doors slid shut, cutting off his gaze, his heat, the pull of it all.
But even as the elevator descended, as Manhattan's lights blurred past, her heart still burned with the fire of almost.