The morning light spilled through the penthouse like liquid gold, softening the hard edges of glass and steel. Tracy stood at the window, coffee untouched in her hand, watching the city breathe below.
She hadn't slept.
Not after the dinner.
Not after his words — the ones that still played in her head like a song she couldn't stop replaying.
Alex Knight was dangerous, not because of what he said, but because of how he made her feel.
Every look, every silence, every deliberate step pulled her deeper into something she swore she wouldn't want.
When she turned, he was already there — crisp shirt, sleeves rolled, tie loosened like he'd conquered another night and didn't care who noticed.
"Good morning, Miss Morgan."
"Morning," she said quietly.
He walked past her to pour himself a coffee, every move calm and measured. "The tailor's downstairs. She'll be up in ten."
"Right," Tracy said, voice steadier than she felt. "Your perfect fiancée needs her perfect dress."
His lips curved. "You sound bitter."
"I sound realistic."
He took a slow sip, eyes meeting hers over the rim of his mug. "You're here because you signed for this. Don't look at me like I dragged you out of a fairy tale."
"Maybe not," she shot back. "But you sure built the castle."
For a second, something in his gaze faltered — something raw, unguarded — before it vanished behind his usual control. "You don't know half of what I've built, Tracy."
"And whose fault is that?" she asked softly.
He set his cup down. "Careful."
Her heart jumped, but she didn't back down. "You don't get to tell me how careful to be."
Silence stretched between them — hot, electric, alive.
And then, for the first time, Alex Knight stepped closer without a reason.
His hand came up, tracing a line from her cheek to her jaw, his thumb resting just below her lip. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
"Maybe I'm just waiting to see if you will," she whispered.
He froze.
For a heartbeat, the air stopped moving.
Then, before either of them could think, his mouth was on hers.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't polite.
It was fire — hungry, desperate, and all the things they'd been trying to ignore.
Her breath caught as he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer until the world disappeared around them. The marble, the glass, the city — none of it mattered.
She shouldn't have kissed him back. But she did.
Because in that moment, she wasn't his employee, his fiancée-for-hire, or a piece on his chessboard.
She was alive.
When he finally pulled back, his breathing was rough, his voice a whisper that brushed her skin. "This was a mistake."
"Then why did you do it?"
His jaw tightened. "Because I forgot for a second who I am."
Tracy's pulse still raced. "And who's that?"
He looked at her like he wanted to say something — to tell her the truth hiding beneath all that steel — but instead he turned away.
"The man who can't afford distractions."
Her throat tightened, a painful mix of anger and something that felt too much like heartbreak. "Then you should probably stop kissing them."
He froze halfway to the door, but didn't look back. "Point taken."
And then he was gone again — leaving her alone with trembling hands and lips that still burned.
Later that afternoon, when the tailor arrived, Tracy could barely focus. She stood before the mirror as pins and fabric circled her like a halo, but all she could see was the reflection of that kiss.
The way he'd lost control.
The way she had wanted him to.
When the fitting ended, she caught sight of him standing in the doorway — watching.
His eyes flicked over the gown, over her, then away as if looking too long would undo him again.
"Fits," he said quietly. "Perfectly."
Tracy smiled — small, sharp, and dangerous. "Good. Wouldn't want your illusion to fall apart in public."
He held her gaze for a long moment before turning to leave.
But she saw it — the smallest flicker of something in his eyes.
Fear.
Not of her, but of himself.
And for the first time, Tracy wondered if maybe she wasn't the only one trapped in this deal.