The argument had been sharp enough to cut the air between us. I had accused him of being controlling, manipulative, and infuriating. He had countered with his usual calm, infuriating composure. And then, in the middle of it—without warning—he kissed me.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't tentative. It was the kind of kiss that demanded surrender, one that stripped away every defense I'd built and left me breathless. His hand cupped my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, pulling me closer until my palms were flat against his chest. I hated that I didn't push him away.
My mind screamed at me to stop, but my body betrayed me, melting into the heat of him. The city lights outside blurred into streaks of gold, and for a moment, there was only the press of his mouth and the steady thud of his heart under my fingertips. When he finally pulled back, his gaze searched mine like he was trying to read every unspoken thought.
"You should hate me," he murmured. "I do," I whispered back. But the word felt weaker than it should.
The days that followed blurred together in a strange rhythm. I still didn't trust him—at least, that's what I told myself—but I began to notice things I'd ignored before. The way he always walked slightly ahead of me in public, shielding my path. How his voice softened, almost imperceptibly, when he said my name.
He didn't push for another kiss, but the memory of the first lingered like a mark on my skin. I caught myself watching him when he wasn't looking and, more dangerously, wondering what it might be like if I stopped resisting entirely. It was dangerous how comfortable I was becoming.
The truth shattered that comfort on a rain-soaked Thursday night.
Marco had left for a meeting, telling me to stay inside. Restless, I wandered his penthouse, the rain pattering against the glass like impatient fingers. I found myself near his private study—one of the few rooms he kept locked. Tonight, the door was ajar. Curiosity tugged me inside.
The room was darker, lined with shelves of leather-bound books and framed photographs that didn't match the sleek, modern style of the rest of the apartment. I traced a finger over one of the frames—and froze. It was a photo of Marco shaking hands with a man I hadn't seen in over fifteen years. A man with familiar eyes and familiar shoulders. My father.
The breath left my lungs. I had been seven when he walked out, taking nothing but a suitcase and his wedding ring. No calls, no letters, no explanations. My mother had cried for weeks before her grief hardened into silence. And now, here he was—smiling beside the man who had dragged me into the very world I'd sworn to avoid.
I kept going, finding more proof in the drawers. A letter in his handwriting. A few signed documents. Enough to confirm it wasn't a coincidence.
The sound of the front door unlocking jolted me. I slid everything back into place and stepped out, closing the study behind me.
Marco entered, shaking rain from his hair. His eyes swept the room. "You've been quiet tonight." I forced a faint smile. "Just tired." He nodded, unconcerned. "Get some rest."
And that was it. No suspicion. No sign he had any idea what I had just discovered.
That night, in the guest room, I lay awake listening to the rain. My mind replayed the photograph, the handshake, and the truth I now carried alone. Marco didn't know. He didn't even realize the man in the picture was my father. And I wasn't going to tell him.
Some truths are sharper when hidden.
"I will not burn with rage," I told myself, staring into the darkness. I will keep the fire quiet; let it smolder deep, unseen. Because when the moment comes, I want the flame to be steady…and I want it to burn them both to ash.
The rain kept falling, steady as my breath, patient as my revenge.