CHAPTER 4
Invitation
“I love all of you. The good and bad.”
His voice echoes like it’s underwater. We’re not kissing.
Breathing hard, mouths inches apart, breathing the same air.
I squeeze my eyes shut as he tries to fit his entire length inside me.
It hurts for a few seconds, but when he starts to move, the pain is replaced by a pleasurable fullness that makes me moan.
Arousal is gathering low in my stomach, and my intimate part throbs from how potent it is.
“Like that,” he echoes, biting me again.
He’s sliding inside me causing me to shudder from how fucking good it feels. “Don’t stop,” I gasp, my head falling back and my legs widening. Another moan bounces off the stone walls when he heeds my request.
“Open wider,my love, I need more of you.” I do as he says, hiking my knees as far up as I can. It feels like I’m on the verge of losing control of my bladder, yet it mingles with the acute need to come. But I don’t want to give him that. I don’t want to lose myself completely.
So I give him a wicked smile and climb on top of him.
I’m above him now. Just how I like it. My hands are now around his throat, pressing just enough to feel control.
His face beneath me is infuriatingly beautiful.
His eyes flicker, confusion bleeding into something else.
His mouth parts like he’s about to say my name.
Or apologize.
Or lie.
His pulse beats against my palms. Fast. Fragile. For a second, I tighten my grip. Just to feel what it’s like to have power instead of questions. His eyes glaze, dimming slowly, like a light lowering in a room no one plans to return to.
I wake up gasping, sitting upright in a bed that isn’t mine.
It’s just a dream.
The betrayal, though, that part isn’t imagined. That part is real. Sharper than sleep. Heavier than fantasy. It presses against my ribs like something trying to break through.
Not grief. Not love. Something darker.
I glance at my phone. 4:30 p.m. For a moment, I just sit there, letting the number settle. My lungs still feel heavy from the dream. I push the covers aside and sit up slowly. I need a shower. I need cold water. I need something, anything, that doesn’t involve Dominic.
He chose her.
Not me.
The thought lands differently now. Less explosive. More permanent.
Tonight, I choose myself.
The shower runs hot at first. I stand under it longer than necessary, letting the water hit my shoulders until my skin turns pink. I scrub like betrayal is something physical I can rinse off.
It isn’t. It lingers.
When I step out, I don’t overthink what to wear.
Dark jeans that fit the way they’re supposed to.
Black boots with just enough heel to change my posture.
A fitted black top, simple, but deliberate.
Not careless. Not trying too hard. I clasp the delicate gold chain around my neck, the small key charm catching the light.
I used to think it meant holding onto things. Tonight, it feels more like letting something go. In the mirror, I don’t look healed, just composed.
That’s enough.
Lucien is waiting in the lobby when I step off the elevator. He’s changed. Dark green button-down, the color deep enough to pull the color from his eyes and make them sharper. The sleeves are rolled neatly to his forearms.
And there it is again. My weakness. Rolled-up sleeves. There’s something about a man’s forearms exposed like that, controlled strength without showing off. Effort without effort. The shirt fits him cleanly across his shoulders. Tailored black trousers. Polished shoes.
Nothing flashy. Just… put together.
His face is unfair. Strong lines, a straight nose, a jaw so defined it looks sculpted rather than grown.
Dark blond hair falls slightly out of place, the kind that looks like he’s run his hand through it instead of bothering with a mirror.
There’s something almost mythic about him, like a modern version of some hero who traded armor for cufflinks. He looks like he belongs in marble.
And I hate that my stomach flips.
His eyes move over me once, slowly, not greedy, just aware. Something shifts in his expression. Subtle approval. Or maybe recognition.
“Ready?” he asks.
My voice behaves. “Sure.”
We step outside together. The air smells like wet asphalt and something faintly sweet, like sugar burned somewhere nearby. The pavement reflects the streetlights in thin streaks of gold. New York feels damp and restless.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.” He starts walking, hands in his pockets.
Not too fast, but purposeful. I fall into step beside him instead of trailing behind.
A few blocks later, he stops in front of a narrow doorway wedged between a laundromat and a closed bakery.
A flickering neon sign glows faintly above it.
The Owl’s Nest – Rooftop. It doesn’t look like much from the outside.
“What is this?” I ask.
He glances at me, that measured half-smile returning. “Better than a minibar.”
There’s something in the way he says it that doesn’t feel like a joke. He pushes the door open and steps aside, letting me go first. For a second, I hesitate, not because I’m afraid of what’s inside, but because I know I’m stepping into something I won’t be able to undo.
We step inside, and the world changes. Dim fairy lights strung across the ceiling, plants hanging from the walls, a faint smell of whiskey and orange zest. A jazz band is tucked in the corner, playing something slow and sultry.
I take a seat at the bar, heart still racing.
He orders us something complicated, something with five syllables I can’t pronounce, and slides one over to me. I raise an eyebrow.
“You’re fancy,” I say.
“Only when necessary,” he replies.
The tension is delicious and yes, maybe a little terrifying.
I watch him laugh with the bartender, relaxed, effortless.
Every so often his eyes drift back to me, not accidental, not subtle either.
My brain immediately starts drafting alternate endings.
Complicated backstory. Unfinished marriage.
The kind of coincidence that isn’t a coincidence at all.
And yet, I’m smiling.
I take another sip of my drink. Sweet first. Then bitter. It lingers on my tongue longer than it should.
“So,” he says, leaning closer, lowering his voice just enough that I feel it more than hear it. “What’s your deal, Sera? You look like you’re thinking five steps ahead.”
“Occupational hazard,” I reply. “I could ask you the same. You have that calm, slightly dangerous thing going on.”
“Dangerous?”
“Like you’re used to walking into a room and leaving with exactly what you wanted.”
His mouth curves slowly. “And what do you think I want?”
I don’t look away. “Im still deciding. You still haven’t answered my question about whether you were following me.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “If I were, I’d make it more interesting.”
My eyes flick down, almost against my will.
His ring.
It catches the rooftop light for a split second. His expression shifts when he notices me noticing. Not defensive. Not embarrassed. Just… aware. A shadow passes over his features. Something softer. Complicated.
He tilts his head slightly. “You notice everything, don’t you?”
“Only the important things,” I reply.
A slow smile curves at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he says, voice lowering just enough to change the temperature between us. “I’d hate to go unnoticed.”
The air between us feels tighter now. We sit like that for a while, the city humming below us. At some point I realize I’ve leaned closer. Or maybe he has. The distance between us feels deliberate, negotiated in inches.
Then he nods toward a narrow door at the far end of the rooftop.
“Want to see something better?” he asks.
Before I can second-guess myself, he’s standing, offering his hand.
I take it. His grip is warm, steady. We climb the small spiral staircase tucked behind the door.
The metal steps echo faintly under our weight.
At the top, the city opens up. Lights stretching endlessly. Buildings layered in shadow and glow. Traffic moving like veins of red and white beneath us.
I inhale slowly. “It’s beautiful.”
He doesn’t look at the skyline.
He looks at me.
A quiet smile touches his mouth. “It really is,” he says, almost absently, like the city isn’t what he’s talking about. And for a second, I forget the view entirely. The moment lingers longer than it probably should. Then, we both turn back toward the skyline.
A quiet smile lingering between us. We stand there for a while, just watching the city. No one else around. No distractions. Just… the two of us, the night, the lights, and the faint, dangerous thrill of doing something completely stupid.
I check my phone, and Clara’s words drift back to me, her reminder to push the line, but not fall over it. We linger on the rooftop a little longer, just the city lights and the quiet thrill of doing something reckless.
Then Lucien finally gestures toward the street below. “Back to the hotel?” he asks. I nod, my pulse still buzzing from the view and the danger of being out at night with him.
As we walk, my phone buzzes. I glance down.
Dominic: Hope you’re having fun. Love you.
A hollow sound escapes my throat. Not quite a laugh.
What a scumbag. Did he really think he could keep both of us?
One life at home. One upstairs in my bed.
Or does he think I’m stupid enough not to notice?
Maybe he feels guilty. Maybe he’s texting because the silence got uncomfortable.
Maybe she wasn’t everything he thought she’d be.
The thought doesn’t comfort me the way it should.
Anger rises instead, slow, hot, curling through my chest like smoke.
I look at Lucien.
“Last shot,” I murmur. “On me.”
We head back down to the hotel. Back at the bar, three more shots appear between us before I even realize I ordered them.
The tequila burns its way down my throat, sharp and punishing, but I welcome it.
Anything to quiet the ache sitting heavy in my chest. Anything to make my brain stop replaying what I saw.
Lucien’s phone buzzes on the bar. A name flashes across the screen.
Abby.
He glances at it and exhales softly.
“I need to take this,” he says, already sliding off the stool. “I’ll be right back.” He steps away, voice lowering as he answers. I stare into my empty glass and let out a quiet, disappointed laugh.
Men. Liars. Cheaters.
Different faces. Same story.
They really do make disappointment look effortless. Why can’t they just stick to one person? Is it really that hard? Commit. Stay. Mean it.
Penguins can do it. Actual birds. With tiny brains and flippers. They pick one partner and waddle through life together like emotionally stable little gentlemen. So what’s the excuse?
They’re all the same, Era. My sister’s voice echoes in my head. God, I hate when she’s right. Maybe it’s ego. Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s the constant need to feel wanted by someone new. Like one person’s love eventually stops tasting sweet enough.
Or maybe I just keep picking the wrong ones. That thought stings worse. Because if they’re all the same… What does that say about me?
I glare at the bartender. He just shakes his head, like he’s watching a conversation only I can hear and silently disagreeing.
“Excuse me?” I say, my words slightly blurred together. “Can I help you?”
“Ma’am,” he says evenly, not even a little intimidated, “tomorrow morning you come back and I’ll make you the best hangover cure you’ve ever had. But tonight, you’re done. No more alcohol.”
I push back from the stool and stand, the room tilting just enough to irritate me. Oh, we are not doing this. Heat rises up my chest, that familiar mix of alcohol and anger, and I open my mouth, fully prepared to argue with this man about absolutely nothing.
Lucien is behind me before I get the chance. “Sorry about that,” he says smoothly, his voice calm and controlled. “My wife needs to go to bed.” His hand settles lightly at my back, steadying me.
“She’s had a little too much.” He lifts his hand slightly as he speaks, the ring catching the light just enough for the bartender to notice.
A quiet signal. The bartender nods once, understanding the message.
“Have a good night,” Lucien adds, already guiding me away from the bar.
And just like that, the argument is over before it ever begins.
I blink at him, half amused, half grateful.
Dangerous. Charming. Protective. All rolled into one infuriating package.
Lucien’s hand rests lightly on my lower back as he guides me toward the elevators. Warm. Consistent. Unsettlingly so.
We step inside.
The doors slide shut with a soft metallic sigh then he presses a button.
3.
My brain immediately snaps to attention.
Three?
How does he know I’m on the third floor?