Selene stood still, watching Zenon disappear into the boardroom with Mrs. Ava. Her body ached—not from the heels or the hours of fake smiles—but from the tension that coiled deep inside her. She needed to breathe.
The marble bathroom felt colder than before as she stepped in, her gown shimmering beneath the soft lights. She turned the faucet and let cool water run over her sweaty palms. But just as the water soothed her skin, a sharp pain twisted through her stomach.
She gasped and hunched slightly, clutching the sink. Then she felt it—warm and unmistakable—slipping between her thighs.
Blood.
"No... no, no, no. Please, not now..." she whispered in horror.
Frantically, she grabbed tissue, hands shaking as she tried to clean herself. Her reflection stared back from the mirror—mascara streaked, lips parted in panic.
"Time is running out, Selene... You're losing it," she said to herself, eyes filled with tears. "What are you even doing anymore?"
She left the bathroom, wiping her face and straightening her dress, even though the glitter no longer sparkled the same. Ignoring the stares, she moved through the corridors like a ghost. Her heels echoed until she stepped out into the garden terrace on the third floor.
There, beneath the canopy of green and soft wind, she dropped to her knees by the railing. Her elbows braced her weight, face buried as she cried in silence—body trembling.
"Why now?" she choked. "Why now... when I've finally found someone to give me a baby?"
The sound of the garden door closing made her stiffen. She turned, wiping her face, only to find Zenon standing there—still in his suit, stunned as he looked at her tear-streaked face and ruined makeup.
Selene stood, eyes fierce despite the tears.
"When are you going to make love to me?" she asked, voice trembling with rage.
Zenon didn't speak.
"Answer me!" she shouted, stepping closer. "This wasn't just your contract. I had something to gain too!"
She pulled a crumpled tissue from her purse—the faint stain of blood barely dry.
"See this? I'm losing it! The other half of our deal—*my* part—it's slipping away."
"You said six months," he replied, cold and unreadable.
"Yes," she hissed. "But things changed, Zenon! My body is changing. I don't have time."
Zenon's gaze dropped briefly to her flushed face, her swollen eyes. "Have you had experience?" he asked.
"What? No!" she blinked, confused.
He nodded, expression unreadable. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"You want a baby?" he said calmly. Then his tone darkened. "Let's make one."
Before she could respond, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her from the terrace.
"W-Where are we going?" she stammered, breath catching.
"To the hotel," he muttered.
Selene followed, barefoot now, her heels in hand. Zenon's steps were quick, sharp. Anger laced each movement. Inside the elevator, he didn't look at her. She watched him, heart racing.
The elevator dinged.
Outside their suite, he pressed his thumb to the scanner. The door slid open.
Then, without a word, he pulled her close—his hands rough around her waist. He took her lips in a kiss that stole her breath and silenced every protest.
Selene's thoughts blurred. Was she supposed to push him away… or pull him closer?
He carried her to the bed with effortless strength.
"Z-Zenon..." she breathed, trembling beneath him.
But he didn't stop.
And this time, neither did she.
----
Zenon loosened his tie and shrugged off his jacket, the movement deliberate, effortless, like a predator settling into its domain. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, sharp, intoxicating, almost daring Selene to breathe it in.
He stepped closer, the soft creak of the floor beneath him drowned out by the quiet hum of anticipation. His gaze locked onto hers—silver eyes dark, unreadable, but full of command.
"Don't speak unless you're speaking my name," he murmured, voice low, magnetic, threading tension through the room.
Selene's pulse hammered in her ears. She swallowed, nodded, and closed her eyes, feeling the gravity of his presence pressing down on her. Every breath, every subtle movement was like a warning—and an invitation.
Her hands trembled slightly, brushing at the sheets as he approached. The air between them seemed to thrum, heavy with unspoken rules, desire, and the fragile line between fear and surrender.
Zenon's hand brushed against her arm, guiding her, steady, careful, yet commanding. She inhaled sharply, caught between curiosity and caution, heat rising to her cheeks. His movements were meticulous, controlled—like he was studying her reactions, measuring her obedience, testing the limits of her trust.
He leaned in, his lips near her neck, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath, yet never crossing the line. Selene's fingers clenched the sheets instinctively. The world around them vanished. All that existed was him, the room, and the electric tension that seemed to vibrate between them.
Her hand drifted to his chest, tentative, curious, yet he didn't recoil. Instead, he let her touch, his own hand brushing hers in a deliberate pause, as if acknowledging her daring.
"Look at me," he whispered, tone calm but commanding, a storm contained behind his eyes. Selene obeyed, and when she opened them, she found him unreadable, dangerous, and achingly magnetic.
A long, deliberate silence stretched between them, each heartbeat loud, each breath a tether to the other. Zenon's hand moved—not with aggression, but with an unspoken promise of control, of intimacy, of testing the boundaries of what Selene could handle.
She trembled under the weight of his gaze, heat crawling up her spine, her body reacting to every deliberate motion he made. Every brush of his fingers against hers, every millimeter of space he closed, was a statement: obey, endure, feel, and learn.
"You trust me?" His voice was a low rumble, threading through her chest like fire.
"I—yes," she breathed, words trembling on the edge of submission and defiance.
"Good," he said simply, almost approvingly. Then he stepped back slightly, giving her a fraction of space to breathe, though the tension didn't ease. "Keep your focus. Stay with me."
Selene nodded, lips parted, eyes wide. The storm of emotions inside her—fear, longing, desire, frustration—swirled, yet she clung to the anchor of his voice, his presence.
And in that room, lit only by the faint glow of the chandelier, with shadows dancing across the walls, the space between them was alive. Every glance, every measured breath, every subtle touch became a conversation louder than words—a dialogue of power, restraint, and the magnetic pull of two people teetering on the edge of surrender and command.