It began with a glance.
Marco was standing at the edge of the balcony, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the night breeze teasing the loose strands of his hair. The city glittered behind him, but I barely noticed the skyline. It was the way he looked at me—like he was trying to read something written deep in my soul—that made my heart stumble.
He crossed the room without a word, each step slow and deliberate, as if giving me a chance to turn away. I didn't. When he stopped in front of me, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from him, my pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the sharp, dangerous pull between us.
His fingers brushed my cheek, light as a whisper. "You're quiet tonight," he murmured.
"Maybe I don't always need to speak," I replied, my voice barely above the sound of my own heartbeat.
Something in his gaze deepened, darkened. And then his lips were on mine.
The kiss wasn't hurried. It was deliberate, consuming. I felt myself sinking into it, my body leaning into his as if some hidden tether had been pulled taut. His hand slid into my hair, the other finding my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against mine. "Tell me to stop," he said, his voice thick, almost pleading.
I didn't. Instead, I kissed him again—harder this time—and his control shattered.
We stumbled toward the bedroom, our movements urgent but unhurried, as though savoring every second. The air was heavy with the scent of him—clean, masculine, faintly spiced—and the sound of our breathing filled the silence.
His hands traced my curves with reverence, as though committing every inch to memory. When his lips found the sensitive hollow of my neck, I let out a sound I hadn't meant to make, soft and involuntary.
Clothes fell away, the world narrowing to the heat of skin on skin. The city's lights spilled through the window, painting us in silver and shadow.
When we finally came together, it was like stepping into something infinite. The rhythm was slow at first, almost hesitant, as if we were both afraid to break the spell. Then it deepened, became something fierce, something alive.
I clung to him, my nails leaving faint marks along his shoulders, my breath mingling with his. The sound of his name on my lips felt both strange and inevitable.
Time ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of him, the way his touch seemed to strip away every layer I wore—every defense, every lie—until I wasn't sure where I ended and he began.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, the air still charged, our bodies slick with the heat we had made. Marco's arm draped across my waist, his thumb tracing slow circles against my skin. His breathing was steady, but I could feel something shifting in him—something dangerous in its own way.
"You feel different," he said softly, almost to himself.
"Different?" I asked, my voice still hushed.
"Like you're not just here because you have nowhere else to go."
I didn't answer. Instead, I shifted closer, resting my head on his chest, letting him think my silence was agreement.
That night, he held me longer than usual. When I finally drifted off, it was to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.
But I didn't sleep long.
Long after he was lost in dreams, I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness. The intimacy we'd shared lingered in my body, in the way my skin still tingled from his touch.
And yet, I reminded myself, this was exactly what I wanted.
If Marco was falling for me—and I could already feel him slipping—then I was closer than ever to the truth. Trust was a currency in his world, more valuable than gold. And tonight, I had invested deeply.
I could almost hear my father's voice, the one from that letter I'd found, cold and certain: She's stronger than she knows.
Yes. I was.
The next morning, Marco's demeanor was different. He was softer with me, lingering over breakfast, brushing a kiss against my temple without needing an excuse. When he left for a meeting, his eyes lingered a little too long on me, as if memorizing me before stepping into the dangerous unknown of his day.
It was working.
I moved through the penthouse with the quiet satisfaction of someone setting a trap and watching it bait itself. Every small kindness, every touch, every moment we shared—I knew it was binding him closer, making it harder for him to suspect me when the time came.
That night, when he returned, we ended up in each other's arms again. But it was different—less urgent, more inevitable. As if this was no longer a question between us, but an answer.
When he whispered my name like a prayer, something in my chest twisted, sharp and dangerous. But I buried the feeling deep.
Because feelings were not part of the plan.
Later, when he drifted into sleep beside me, I lay awake once more, my mind moving like clockwork.
The warmth of his love was real—I could feel it in the way he touched me now, in the way his eyes sought mine even when we weren't speaking. But love, I knew, could be a weapon.
And I intended to wield it.
The closer you are to the flame, I thought, the easier it is to burn it down.
I turned my head to watch him sleep, his face unguarded, almost boyish in the dark. Somewhere deep inside, I almost wished things were different. But the truth remained.
He and my father had built something that had taken pieces of me I could never get back.
And no matter how magical his touch felt, my heart would never belong to him.