6

The elevator whispers to a stop.

Penthouse.

I step out, heels clicking softly against polished stone. The corridor stretches ahead quiet, dark, daring me to take another step forward.

I glance down.

The card trembles slightly in my hand, my fingers wrapped tightly around the note.

But I’m not turning back.

Not tonight.

I move forward, the air thickening around me, pressing close, heavy and silent. At the end of the hall, the door ahead looms, PH-1, tall and imposing, dark polished wood framed in subtle gold, perfectly immaculate, perfectly intimidating. Like everything else in this place, it whispers wealth. Power.

Control.

My heart beats wildly in my throat, my pulse a steady drumbeat echoing through every nerve.

Turn around, Camila, go back downstairs.

The voice of reason, buried deep, tries one final protest.

I should turn around.

I should run straight back to the cage below, slip neatly into the illusion they carved out for me, until I forget what freedom tasted like. Forget that for one brief, breathless second, someone looked at me and saw truth instead of illusion.

But I don’t move. I don’t turn. I can’t.

The keycard is warm now. The note, folded and softened from how fiercely I’ve clung to it.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, my breath shuddering past parted lips. The air here feels charged, pressurized. Scented faintly with sandalwood, leather, and something darker, something male and dangerous.

My fingers hover over the sleek scanner beside the door, hesitation suspended in the space between breath and action.

This is it.

The fracture.

The moment that splits my life in two…before and after.

And suddenly, panic seizes me.

Not fear of him. Not fear of what waits behind that door.

Fear of myself. Fear of discovering what kind of woman willingly steps into a stranger’s darkness just because he looked at her and saw something real.

Something desperate. Something true.

The kind of woman who chooses fire over safety. The kind who craves ruin if ruin means finally breathing free.

I swallow hard, throat tight, chest aching.

I lift the keycard and swipe once.

The lock clicks, heavy, definitive.

The door doesn’t swing open, it waits. Silent. Mocking. Knowing the choice must be mine alone.

My hand trembles faintly as I raise it.

I knock softly, twice, deliberate, the sound like a confession echoing softly off polished wood.

A heartbeat passes.

Then another.

And then the handle turns slowly, effortlessly.

My breath catches sharply as the door swings open—

And he’s there.

Waiting.

Kingston

The knock comes soft.

Measured.

Not desperate. Not timid. Just... decisive.

Two raps. That’s it.

But it hits like a shot to the chest. Like a trigger pulled.

I don’t move right away.

I want her to feel it.

The pause.

The weight.

Me.

I've been standing here since the moment the key card left my hand.

Didn’t pour a drink.

Didn’t pace.

Didn’t second guess a goddamn thing.

Because I knew.

She’d come.

Not because she’s reckless, though she is. Not because she’s curious, though that too. No, she came because something in her is starving. And she knows I’m the only one who can feed it.

She came because she couldn’t not.

I didn’t force her. I didn’t lure her. I gave a key and let her decide.

That’s the game.

Let them walk themselves into the fire. Let them think they’re free.

The strongest ones, the ones with the hardest eyes, the sharpest tongues?

They kneel the fastest.

Just to prove they never will.

She just doesn’t know that yet.

I reach for the handle.

Turn it.

And when the door swings open—

There she is.

Backlit by the hallway, framed like a goddamn fever dream. Still in that royal blue dress that clings to her like sin. Hair swept, skin glowing, lips parted just slightly like she’s holding in the kind of breath that never makes it out clean.

She doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t have to.

I see everything.

The tension in her spine, wound tight. The flame behind her eyes, still fighting, still lying to itself. The keycard in her hand, clenched so hard her knuckles are white.

She came armed with pride.

Shame she won’t leave with it.

My gaze drags over her slowly, unapologetically, starting at those expensive heels, up the line of her calves, pausing at the soft slit in that dress like an invitation she doesn’t remember extending.

My stare lingers on her breasts. Her throat. Her mouth.

I want her to know what I see.

I want her to feel seen.

The real her. The one underneath the polish and pedigree. The one clawing for breath in a world that only lets her smile.

I lift my eyes back to hers.

She holds my gaze.

Barely.

But she does.

And that’s what seals it.

Not the knock.

Not the keycard.

That.

That stubborn, trembling stare that says she knows what this is and she still walked through the fire.

She thinks she can survive this.

She has no idea what I’ll do to her first.

Camila

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

Just stands there, raw power and dangerous, promise wrapped in a thousand silent warnings. Shadows darken every sharp, ruthless angle of his face, an invitation to sin painted in shades of midnight.

My pulse kicks violently, my veins burn hotter with every heartbeat of silence between us.

He’s waiting.

For me.

I move forward, heels clicking too sharply on the polished floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. The door shuts behind me, sealing me inside this secret, trapping me in the shadow of a man whose name I don't know, except the single, enigmatic letter: K.

My breath trembles, betraying me, but pride lifts my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his head-on.

No turning back.

Not now.

“You can still leave, Princesa. Turn around, go back to your perfect world of lies.” His eyes drop deliberately to my lips, then trail slowly lower, lingering. Possessive. Claiming. “Or you can stay,” His voice is low, velvet-edged steel, slicing straight to my core. “But if you stay… I own you for the night.”

The words ripple through me, heated and forbidden, igniting something reckless, desperate, utterly primal.

I lift my gaze, defiance and surrender tangled in every breath.

“Then own me,” I whisper, sealing my fate.

A slow, wicked smirk curves his lips, something predatory and achingly sensual. He crosses the distance between us with measured steps, the subtle scent of him, dark spice, expensive whiskey, forbidden promises, wrapping around me smoke.

He moves close…too close. his presence swallowing me whole, erasing every careful line I've drawn. My heart slams violently against my ribs, every beat echoing his quiet domination.

A single finger lifts my chin, forcing my gaze to his. Those eyes, depthless, unreadable, merciless, hold me hostage. He studies me slowly, deliberately, as if peeling away every secret, every fragile layer I hide beneath.

His thumb traces the line of my jaw, possessive and soft, a contradiction that makes my pulse race faster. “Careful what you wish for, Princesa,” he murmurs darkly, his mouth brushing mine with each velvet-edged word. "Because tonight, I'll leave marks you'll never erase."

My breath catches, sharp and shallow, his words curling hot at the base of my spine, sinking low, heavy, into the part of me that’s already aching for him.

I tilt my chin up, mouth parted, challenge clear in my eyes. Daring him. Daring me.

Take it.

Take me.

Take everything.

His eyes darken like storm clouds rolling in slow and lethal. He reads me, really reads me, and it’s like he sees every filthy thing I’ve ever tried to bury. The thoughts I don’t say out loud. The need I’ve tried to starve.

His hand slides down, grazing my throat with unbearable patience, fingers coasting over the hollow between my collarbones, following the neckline of my dress until he reaches the curve of my breast.

He doesn’t grope.

He lingers.

Featherlight touch. But I swear it brands me from the inside out.

I sway into him, helpless. My body already made the decision my pride refuses to admit.

His palm finds my waist and grips. Tight.