The power went out at exactly 11:47 p.m.
Not a flicker. Not a warning hum. Just sudden darkness swallowing the penthouse whole, followed by the soft, distant sound of the city adjusting—sirens hiccupping, generators kicking in elsewhere, life continuing without them.
Amber sat up in bed instantly.
She hated the dark. Not in a childish way, not enough to panic—but enough to make her skin tighten, her senses sharpen. Darkness gave thoughts too much room to breathe.
She reached for her phone. No signal. No internet. Only a weak glow from the screen.
Then thunder rolled, low and heavy.
"Perfect," she muttered.
Rain began moments later, drumming against the windows, fast and insistent. The city lights outside were gone too, swallowed by the outage. For once, Lagos felt far away, unreachable.
Amber slipped out of bed and pulled on a robe, tying it tighter than necessary. She stepped into the hallway, phone light cutting a narrow path through the dark.
She hadn't gone far when she heard footsteps.
Slow. Measured.
Alex.
"Amber."
His voice carried easily, calm as ever. Annoyingly steady.
"Power's out," she said unnecessarily.
"So I noticed."
She stopped a few feet away from him. In the dim light of her phone, he looked different—less polished, his shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly undone. Too human. Too close to the version of him that lived only in quiet moments.
"The generators didn't kick in," he continued. "Storm probably knocked out the main line."
"Meaning?"
"We wait."
She sighed. "Of course we do."
Another crack of thunder split the air, closer this time. Amber flinched before she could stop herself.
Alex noticed.
"Come to the living room," he said. "The windows there are reinforced. Fewer echoes."
"I'm fine."
"You're tense."
She bristled. "I said I'm fine."
He didn't argue. He just turned and walked toward the living room, trusting she'd follow.
She hated that he was right.
The living room felt cavernous in the dark. Alex lit a single emergency lamp from a drawer, casting a low amber glow that softened the sharp edges of the space. Shadows stretched across the walls, intimate and unsettling.
They stood there, awkward, unsure where to put themselves.
"So," Amber said finally, folding her arms. "Eventful night."
Alex leaned against the back of the couch. "If by eventful you mean inconvenient, yes."
She glanced at him. "You could've warned me."
"About the storm?"
"About Isabella."
His jaw tightened slightly. "I didn't think—"
"That's becoming a pattern."
Silence followed, thick and uncomfortable.
Thunder rolled again. This time, Amber didn't hide her reaction. Her shoulders tensed, breath catching for half a second too long.
Alex straightened. "Amber."
She hated that he could hear it. "Drop it."
He didn't. Instead, he moved closer—not touching, just close enough that she was aware of him. Of his warmth. Of his presence anchoring the space.
"You don't like storms," he said quietly.
She laughed once, humorless. "Congratulations. You've cracked the mystery."
"Why?"
Her eyes flicked to his. "Why do you care?"
Another pause.
"I don't need a reason to notice," he said.
That was worse.
She looked away, focusing on the rain streaking down the glass. "I grew up in a house where storms meant damage. Broken windows. Power out for days. People yelling. I learned early that calm was temporary."
Alex absorbed that without interrupting.
"That's why I don't trust quiet," she added. "Or promises. Or men who say things without explaining them."
His gaze stayed on her profile. "I don't make promises lightly."
"No," she said softly. "You make contracts."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "They're more reliable."
She turned to face him fully now, frustration flashing. "Are they? Because this—" she gestured between them, the room, the night, "—doesn't feel controlled at all."
Thunder boomed again, so close the windows vibrated. Amber's breath hitched, and before pride could stop her, she reached out.
Her fingers caught the sleeve of his shirt.
The contact was brief.
Electric.
Neither of them moved.
Alex looked down at her hand, then back at her face. "You can let go," he said gently.
She didn't.
"I know," she replied. "I just… needed a second."
He didn't pull away.
Instead, he shifted closer, slow enough to give her time to retreat. She didn't. His presence blocked out the storm, the noise, the past.
"You don't have to pretend with me," he said. "Not here."
Her laugh was shaky. "That's dangerous talk."
"Maybe."
Their faces were too close now. She could see the tension in his jaw, the restraint etched into every line of him. He smelled faintly of cologne and rain and something undeniably him.
"This is exactly what the contract warned against," she whispered.
"Yes."
"Then step back."
He didn't.
Neither did she.
The moment stretched—fragile, charged, suspended.
Then the lights flickered back on.
Bright. Harsh. Reality snapping into place.
Amber pulled her hand away as if burned, stepping back instantly. "I should—go."
Alex nodded once, mask sliding back into place. "Of course."
She turned and walked away without looking back, heart racing, skin buzzing, mind spinning.
Behind her, Alex stood still, staring at the space she'd occupied seconds earlier.
The storm outside faded into distant rain.
But inside the penthouse, something had shifted.
They hadn't crossed the line.
But they'd stood right at the edge.
And both of them knew it.