Cael’s hands are braced on the icy metal railing, city lights smearing gold across his knuckles. The night air is sharp, making his black dress shirt cling closer to his chest, collar open, tie forgotten and hanging loose. The hard lines of his jaw are shadowed; he looks almost regal, but there’s a tremor in the way his fingers dig into steel. Sirae steps behind him, heels crisp on concrete, a tailored navy suit hugging her curves with effortless power. Her dark hair is up—practical, perfect—but a stray strand softens her jaw, framing her mouth. When she exhales, it’s the sound of someone trying to hold a secret inside.

He senses her before he turns, the heat of her presence prickling along his back. “You hiding too?” he murmurs, not looking at her.

She ignores the question, moving closer, until the edge of her skirt brushes his thigh. Her eyes are cut glass, dark and assessing, flicking from his mouth to his hands. “It’s chaos down there. You looked like you needed saving.” Her smile is dry, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Under the neon spill, her lip quivers—small, almost imperceptible, but it betrays her.

“Not the first time I’ve been cornered on this roof,” he says, quieter now. He doesn’t pull away as she leans in, her hand ghosting over his wrist, fingers pressing a silent question into his pulse. The contact is accidental, then intentional—her skin, warm against his. For a moment, they breathe together, the city’s electric hum a distant echo.

She’s close enough that he can trace the outline of her freckles, see the faint flush at her throat. His gaze lingers. “Sirae,” he whispers, like her name is dangerous.

Her answer is a challenge—a half-smirk, her tongue flicking out to wet her bottom lip. “You want something, Cael?” A dare, all razor edges and soft invitation.

There’s a crash of laughter below, doors banging. She tightens her grip on his wrist, pulls him to face her fully, and in the charged hush, the world shrinks to just their mouths, the shallow hitch of breath. Her other hand slides up his tie, tugging him down—slow, decisive. His protests dissolve, unspoken, as her lips claim his in a kiss that is at once staged and searing: her mouth insistent, parted, breath mingling with his. Her teeth graze his lower lip. He shudders, helpless, her fingers threading into his hair, holding him there a moment longer than necessary.

Someone calls out from the stairwell—CEO Amaya, heels clicking, voice sharp and expectant. Sirae breaks the kiss but keeps their bodies pressed together, her hand splayed against his chest, feeling the wild thud of his heart. She gives him a warning look as Amaya steps onto the rooftop.

The CEO’s gaze is predatory, missing nothing. “Good. You two are here.” She circles them, eyes flicking to Sirae’s tousled hair, Cael’s parted lips. “You look… cozy. That’s the image I need. This firm can’t weather another scandal.” Her words are edged with steel.

Sirae doesn’t crack; instead, she melts into Cael’s side, her posture sleek and feline. “We’re handling it.” Her voice is velvet, but her fingers dig crescents into his hip.

Cael’s mind whirls; he catches his own reflection in a distant window—his shirt rumpled, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide with something he refuses to name. He forces a calm he doesn’t feel. “We’ll make a statement, if you want one,” he says, voice unsteady.

Amaya nods, satisfied but wary. “Prove it.” Her eyes narrow—a queen demanding a show.

Sirae lifts her face, brushing her lips along Cael’s jaw in a slow, deliberate sweep, her breath hot at his ear. “Play along, Liron,” she whispers, so quiet only he can hear it. Then, for the second time, her lips meet his—softer, but no less incendiary. He tastes need, denial, the sweetness of risk. When she pulls back, there’s a shiver in her demeanor, a flush that can’t be faked.

The CEO’s nod is curt as she turns away, but in her wake, the air is left crackling. Cael watches Sirae, searching her eyes for truth or pretense, but all he sees is his own panic and want reflected back at him.

He opens his mouth—wants to ask what happens now—but Sirae’s already walking away, spine ramrod straight, the echo of her touch lingering in his bones. Below, the office is abuzz—wordless rumors multiplying, the first domino tilting.

He’s left alone, breathless and undone, the taste of her still on his lips, as the city spins and the firm’s future—and his own—threaten to slip out from under him.

To be continued...