Chapter 25
Rina
The elevator glides to a stop, and when the doors slide open, my stomach does a small flip. Oliver steps out first, all easy confidence, like this is just an ordinary night with another woman he’s brought home.
Except it’s not.
And we both know it.
I trail behind him, my movements slow and hesitant.
The moment I step into the penthouse entryway, my gaze skims over the luxurious interior.
Black leather couches, arranged with a decorator’s meticulous eye, sit atop gleaming hardwood floors.
Floor-to-ceiling windows give a stunning view of the city.
There’s not a tossed magazine or rogue sock in sight.
I’ve never felt more out of place.
I clutch the strap of my bag until my knuckles ache, standing like a tiny island in a sleek, unfamiliar sea.
What the hell am I doing here?
Why am I letting him drag me deeper into a world that feels dangerous and inevitable all at once?
This situation has disaster written all over it.
I know it even if he doesn’t.
Oliver turns his head, one brow lifting in that infuriating way of his.
Without asking, he reaches for my overnight bag.
His fingers brush against mine. The contact is as quick as it is electric, and a shiver races down my spine.
Before I can say anything, he takes the duffel and turns down a long stretch of hallway.
It takes a moment to jump-start my brain. “So, do I get my own room?”
He disappears before returning a beat later, empty-handed, a smug smile playing around his lips. “Abso-fucking-lutely not.”
I bristle. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.” He erases the space between us until I can feel the heat radiating off him. It’s a physical presence that seems to draw all the oxygen from the penthouse. “You’re sleeping in my room. In my bed. In my arms. End of story.”
His mouth looms over mine, and my body tenses in both anticipation and dread.
A traitorous warmth blooms beneath my skin even as my brain screams at me to resist. For one dizzying moment, it’s tempting to give in to the urge.
I imagine the weight of him beside me. His steadiness, the security of his arms wrapped around me, before straightening my spine and shoulders.
“You make this sound permanent.”
His eyes burn steadily into mine. “That’s because it is.”
The response slams into me. It’s quiet yet sure.
Unshakeable.
My mind lurches, whirling until it’s hard to think straight.
I need space.
Something solid to cling to before I drown in him completely.
My gaze catches on a bookshelf tucked into one corner of the open living room.
I move toward it like it’s a lifeline. Most of the items there are predictable.
Books with uncracked spines, a few modern sculptures, a bottle of bourbon that probably costs more than my rent.
But there’s one thing that doesn’t fit. A small, framed photograph with worn edges and faded color.
It’s the only thing in the entire penthouse that looks personal.
I pick it up carefully and find a younger Oliver grinning back at me with sunlight glinting off his blond hair and a smile that’s bright with mischief.
He’s wedged between two other boys. One is older and the other younger.
But they all have the same look. A woman stands behind them, visibly pregnant, arms curved protectively around all three, while a tall man beside her rests a hand on her shoulder.
It’s a snapshot of something I’ve never associated with him.
Home.
Warmth.
Family.
For a moment, time stops and I only see that Oliver.
The boy before he was an NHL superstar with a reputation for making headlines.
I turn toward him in surprise. “You have siblings?”
His expression tightens as he stops a few feet away. His gaze flicks to the photo before returning to me. “Yeah. That picture was taken a long time ago.”
There’s something in the way he says it, flat but weighted, that pricks at me.
I set the frame down gently, handling it with deliberate care. “You look happy.”
“We were. That was before everything changed.”
Even though I don’t ask what he means, the silent question lingers between us. When I glance up, he’s already watching me. His control fraying just enough to show what’s buried underneath it.
His knuckles drift across my arm. It’s a featherlight touch that feels more like a claim. A silent promise that says I belong here, whether I want to or not.
“Stop waiting for this to end, Rina. Because it’s not going to.”
For a beat, I imagine letting go, leaning into his arms and the effortless way he makes everything feel manageable.
It would be so easy to give in.
To sink into this.
Into him.
He’s saying all the right things, and the worst part is that I want to believe him.
But easy is dangerous.
Easy collapses into nothing faster than you can blink.
It teaches you to trust the quick fix and forget the slow work.
I know that in my bones. My gaze slides back to the family photo on the shelf, and my stomach knots.
If the test I took this morning is right, if those two pink lines weren’t a cruel trick, then one day there could be another picture like that.
One with Oliver and me and a small, laughing face squeezed between us.
The possibility crashes over me like a wave.
It’s equal parts terror and something strangely tender tinged with longing.
That thought scares me more than anything I’ve ever faced.
Ignoring the ghost of his fingers on my skin, I force my shoulders back and let the practiced coolness settle over me like armor.
“I need to get some work done.” I keep my tone deliberately flat. It’s not exactly a lie, but it’ll buy me enough time to pull myself back together again.
Oliver smirks, as if he sees straight through the paper walls I’m trying to build. Instead of challenging me, he leans in and presses a kiss against my temple.
“Make yourself at home, baby.” His eyes never break contact with mine as his hand sweeps the penthouse in a lazy arc. “Because this is yours now too.”
I don’t answer as my fingers clamp around the strap of my purse. It’s the only solid thing keeping me from floating away.
Outside these walls, people are living their lives. They’re making dinner, falling in love, arguing over trivial things that won’t matter in the morning. But deep within me, a complicated, combustible tension coils tight.
Because I’ve never wanted something so much.
And wanting it might be the very thing that breaks me.