She bit her lips—was she blushing? No. Impossible. She frowned hard, peeking from the doorframe, her fingers curled around it. Her eyes trailed over his broad back, the way his silver hair shimmered under the chandelier, and how he moved with ridiculous confidence as he continued his conversation with the men.
"What a showoff," she muttered, squinting her face in irritation. "Sick man."
She slipped away just as he began turning in her direction, her bare feet tiptoeing toward the kitchen counter. She set water to boil and began tapping the table aimlessly, pacing from one edge of the kitchen to another.
"'Sex can wait,' in front of people?" she hissed under her breath, mortified. "How embarrassing…"
The echo of the men's voices filled the mansion. Her face twisted in frustration.
"I swear… if I could just strangle that arrogant, handsome chest of his—ugh!" She balled her fists, squeezing hard like she was crushing air.
She didn't realize she had been reboiling the same water for nearly an hour.
"If he wants to deceive them, fine," she mumbled. "But he's not going to keep making a fool out of me—"
She suddenly bumped into something—someone.
A warm, sweaty chest.
Her eyes traveled upward, pausing at his collarbone. Then—
"If you've got something to say," Zenon's voice rumbled, "say it to my face. Not my chest."
Her breath caught. She stepped back quickly, rolling her eyes. "I wasn't admiring you, if that's what your inflated ego thinks."
He smirked but didn't respond. Instead, he brushed past her, his shoulder grazing her head as he made his way to the gas cooker. His hand calmly turned off the boiling kettle.
"How long have you been boiling this water?" he asked without even glancing at her, his palm pressed flat against the counter.
Selene shifted awkwardly. "Are those men gone?" she asked, changing the subject as she leaned against the doorframe.
Without warning, his hand reached out, catching her arm in one firm, deliberate grip. Her heart jumped.
She turned her head, startled, eyes darting from his hand to his face.
"Le… let… let go—" she stuttered.
He stared at her silently, eyes unreadable. Then, without another word, he released her, stepped behind her, and exited the kitchen.
Just as he was disappearing around the corner, he muttered coldly, "Don't walk out before I do."
Selene stood frozen. "Buh… buh… seriously?" she muttered, trying to catch up, her arms crossed in disbelief.
"Wait. Seriously!" she called after him, raising herself on her toes like she could somehow reach the height of his arrogance.
---
She carefully balanced the brown tray against her chest — milkshake swaying, cheesecake trembling — as she walked out of the kitchen with soft, deliberate steps.
"Keep an eye on the fool. One more mistake, discard him," Zenon's cold voice echoed behind her, a final sentence clipped and brutal.
She glanced toward him.
There he sat — cross-legged, glass of whiskey in hand, soaked in command like it was stitched into his skin. The men around him stood at attention, bowing one after the other as they exited silently, each one purposely avoiding her gaze.
Selene passed them like a performer exiting stage left, holding her tray like a shield to ward off Zenon's blazing aura. Her shoulders were square, but her heartbeat rattled.
Once they were gone, she moved to the couch opposite him, plopped the tray down, and swung her legs freely like a bored child.
She took a long sip from her milkshake and stared at him. Unblinking.
He was still seated, still brooding — like a devil simmering in silence.
So she mimicked him.
Glass in hand, stiff posture, every gesture exaggerated like a clown mocking a king.
Zenon didn't notice at first. But when he did, his eyes lifted slowly, catching her just as she brought the milkshake to her lips in perfect sync with his whiskey glass.
He stilled.
She stilled.
A long pause.
Then—he chuckled. A deep, rumbling breath that barely moved his chest, but sent a shiver through the air.
He stood. The leather couch groaned under him.
Walking toward her, he began undoing two buttons on his shirt — slow, deliberate — fingers poised like he was waiting for her to imitate him again.
Selene's fingers twitched toward her own shirt.
Then froze.
*What is this man doing?* she panicked silently, maintaining her mock-expression but refusing to match him this time.
Zenon smirked, voice low and triumphant.
*"That's where I win, flower."*
He turned and walked away, disappearing up the stairs, his chuckle trailing behind him like smoke.
Selene sat frozen, blinking rapidly.
The moment he was truly gone, she tossed the tray aside, leapt onto the couch and kicked her legs in the air like a child on sugar.
*"Yes! At least he cares!"* she squealed, flipping her hair dramatically.
*"Selene, you never told me you were this talented."*
The voice startled her.
She hadn't heard the footsteps.
But she smelled his cologne first—sharp, expensive, and dangerously familiar.
She dropped to the floor instantly, pretending to search for something behind the couch.
Zenon stood at the entryway, arms crossed, watching her theatrics with a raised brow.
"What are you—"
"Found it!" she blurted out too quickly, lifting a random book and waving it like a trophy, a sheepish smile glued to her face.
"You don't have to care—I mean, care, but not too much… you know," she added, nodding awkwardly as she sat back down.
"Selene," he said.
Her hand froze mid-reach for the milkshake.
*Yes, he called me.* She squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip.
*You enjoyed my view. You like me. Just say it, please.*
The inner screaming was real.
"You mimicked me well," Zenon said calmly.
Her eyes popped open, darting left and right.
*Does this man have a love syndrome or what?*
"I… did? I mean… did I?"
He nodded slowly, placing his whiskey glass on the table. Without another word, he turned to leave.
"But next time..." he paused at the doorway, "if you want to impress me, try matching the silence too."
*Disgusting... good-looking devil.*
She narrowed her eyes, leaned back, and sipped her milkshake like a villain.