The morning light found me before I was ready for it. It slipped through the curtains in soft ribbons, warming the sheets tangled around us. Marco's arm was heavy across my waist, his breath slow against the back of my neck. For a while, I stayed perfectly still, letting myself drown in the rhythm of his breathing. It was the only time I ever saw him unguarded—the only time his world of power and control gave way to something human.
His fingers shifted slightly, tracing the curve of my hip in his sleep, and my pulse betrayed me, quickening under his touch. He didn't even know what I was or what I wanted—and that made it worse.
"Good morning," he murmured, voice rough, lips grazing my shoulder.
I turned toward him, catching the shadow of a smile playing on his mouth. "Morning."
He brushed a thumb along my jaw, lazy and tender, as if memorizing my face. "You should stay in today," he said softly. "I want to come back to you."
I smirked. "You sound sure I'll be waiting."
"I am," he said simply, and kissed me—slow, lingering, just enough to leave my thoughts in ruin.
When he left, the penthouse felt hollow, too quiet. The sheets still smelled like him—that warm, faintly spiced scent that clung to my skin like memory. I wrapped the robe tighter around me, trying to shake it off.
My phone buzzed on the table.
Don't lose focus. — D
I stared at the words until they blurred. Focus. As if that were possible anymore.
By the time Marco returned, the sun had started to sink, painting gold over glass. He looked tired—a loosened tie, the faint crease of frustration between his brows—but when he saw me, something in him softened.
"You stayed," he said quietly.
I met his gaze. "Maybe I was waiting."
He smiled—the kind that made it hard to tell where charm ended and sincerity began. "Then I'm glad I was worth waiting for."
Dinner was effortless, with the kind of silence between us that felt almost intimate. He talked about his day, his tone smooth and controlled, but I could hear the strain beneath it. There were things he wasn't saying. There always were.
Afterward, we stayed outside on the balcony. The air was heavy with the scent of rain; the city spread below us like a secret. He stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of my dress.
"You always look like you're somewhere else," he said softly.
"Maybe I am."
He leaned in, his breath brushing my ear. "Then I'll have to bring you back."
His hand found mine, his fingers sliding between my own—slow, deliberate, claiming. The air between us shifted, thickening with something unspoken. When I turned, our eyes met, and everything that had been restrained between us came undone.
He kissed me. Not like before—not gentle, not uncertain. This was deeper, hungrier, a pull that stole the ground from beneath me. My hands found the back of his neck, and he let out a sound low in his throat that made heat curl low in my stomach.
He pressed me back against the balcony rail, the city lights flickering behind him, and for a moment it felt like standing on the edge of something I couldn't name.
When we finally pulled apart, breathless, his forehead rested against mine. "You undo me," he whispered.
"Good," I said, my voice unsteady. "Then we're even."
The night blurred after that—touches, whispers, the soft drag of his hand against my skin. Every move felt intentional, every breath heavy with meaning. But underneath it all, my mind kept working, cataloging, remembering. Because even in surrender, I couldn't afford to forget the plan.
Later, when he slept, I slipped from the bed. The room was washed in silver light, his body half-covered by the sheets, the lines of his shoulders carved in shadow. For a moment, I let myself look—really look—at him. The man I was meant to destroy.
I turned away before the thought could root itself too deeply.
The study door was slightly ajar. He must have been in there earlier, and the faint light still glowed from the desk lamp. My pulse quickened as I stepped inside. Everything about the room mirrored him—ordered, meticulous, controlled.
My fingers trailed along the edge of the desk, stopping at a small stack of photographs. Faces. Handshakes. Smiles that meant business, not friendship. And then—one image froze me.
Marco. My father. Side by side.
They looked younger, both of them. The photo had been taken at a construction site, a new building rising in the background. My father was laughing, head tilted slightly toward Marco, and Marco's smile—real, open—mirrored his.
I swallowed hard, the room suddenly too quiet, too small. My fingers trembled as I set the photo back down, careful not to leave a trace.
"Couldn't sleep?"
His voice came from the doorway, low and quiet—unreadable.
I turned, forcing calm into my face. "You startled me."
He smiled faintly, stepping into the light. "That's twice in one night. You must be slipping."
"I was just looking for something to read," I lied smoothly.
He glanced at the shelf, then at me, eyes dark with amusement. "At this hour?"
I met his gaze evenly. "Some of us don't sleep well."
He came closer, slow and measured, until I could feel the heat radiating from him. His hand reached past me, fingers brushing my arm as he pulled a book from the shelf. "Try this one," he said. "It's about trust."
The corner of my mouth lifted. "How fitting."
He held my gaze for a long moment before saying softly, "Come back to bed."
I hesitated, just long enough for him to notice. Then I nodded.
Back in the bedroom, he pulled me close again, his warmth sinking into me, his breathing deep and steady. The silence between us was heavier now, layered with all the things we weren't saying.
My heart thudded against his chest, steady but sharp—a rhythm of guilt and purpose. His hand moved idly along my back, tracing patterns that burned long after he stopped.
When I finally closed my eyes, I knew two things for certain: I was closer than ever to the truth. And the truth might cost me more than I'd planned to give.
Because some lies don't just trap the person you tell them to—they trap you too.
And I was already caught.