Thalen’s hands trembled as he pressed the staff lounge door closed behind him, his button-down shirt askew and his eyes darting, wide with the panic of someone who’s just realized the ground beneath him is less floor, more trapdoor. Liseva waited by the coffee maker, her gaze sharpened to a point, hair swept up, lips set in a line between mischief and remorse.

When she finally spoke, the words were knives wrapped in silk. “I’m sorry, Thalen. I really am.” She produced her press badge—a slim rectangle, cool and damning. “It’s my job. You were just…easier to talk to than I expected.” Her voice strained, as if she’d almost mean it. Thalen’s smile cracked, all that usual lightness peeling away. His jaw set tight, cheeks burning as pieces fell brutally into place.

He couldn’t help glancing down, hands curling into fists. “You used me.” His voice was rough—wounded, not angry yet, but something in him braced for impact. Through the fluorescent light, all his warmth looked blue, and for the first time, he seemed small—a sidekick caught at center stage, lines forgotten.

He didn’t see Liseva go; he barely noticed the door swing shut behind her. Instead, he fumbled for his phone and, after a frantic half-dozen tries, called Cael.

Upstairs, Cael stood at his window, tie undone, watching the city’s night grow dense and soft. When his phone buzzed, he hesitated—then answered, voice wary. Thalen’s words tumbled out, broken: “She played me. She’s a journalist. I told her everything, Cael. Everything.”

A heavy pause, then Cael’s breath hissed sharp. “You—you did what?” Hurt sharpened his tone, but all Thalen could do was whisper, “I’m sorry,” until Cael, jaw flexed and eyes shining too bright, promised to meet him.

Cael found Thalen crumpled on a bench in the empty hallway, shirt wrinkled, cheeks wet, fear and guilt stripped bare. Cael’s jaw was tight, suit jacket open, every inch of him brittle with tension. For a second, it looked as if he might walk away on a razor edge of anger—but then Thalen’s voice broke again: “I didn’t mean to ruin everything.”

A gutted silence. Cael sat, their shoulders brushing; his hand hovered, uncertain, then squeezed Thalen’s knee once, hard. There was nothing to say, only the heavy throb of consequences and the barest comfort of not being alone in the fallout.

Later, Sirae’s heels clicked across the rooftop bar’s mosaic floor as she found Cael hunched at the farthest table, rumpled and unreachable. She wore a storm-grey dress, lines severe but the fabric clinging to skin made softer by need. Her eyes, always guarded, shimmered now with something close to fear.

She stopped, heart in her mouth. “I heard about Liseva,” she said softly.

Cael’s head turned. His shirt collar was open, pulse visible at his throat, face drawn and tired. “Everything’s falling apart,” he admitted, voice low, almost pleading.

She slipped into the chair beside him, hands folding tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Their eyes met—hers flinty, his damp with weight he could no longer carry alone.

“I’m scared,” Sirae whispered. “I’m scared of what you make me feel.” Her words trembled, almost lost in the city’s hum. Cael reached for her, thumb tracing her jaw, and the air snapped—something elemental, old as longing.

He kissed her—careful at first, then desperate. She surged into him, hands burying in his hair, every inhibition torn as desire and relief crashed together. Buttons popped, her dress sliding down her shoulder; his hands mapped skin with devotion and hunger, breath hitching, lips at her throat.

They tangled on the sofa, unmaking each other with every frantic move—her leg hooked over his hip, his palm pressed to her bare spine, both gasping into the edge where pain and pleasure blur. The world outside dissolved. Nothing left but pulse, sweat, the sweet violence of finally letting go.

After, Sirae lay draped across Cael, her hair wild, his cheek pressed to hers. Their chests heaved in time, and for a moment, it was safe to believe in the sanctuary of skin.

But Sirae’s phone lit up, vibrating hard against the table. She reached with shaking fingers—and read Liseva's name. A single, chilling line flashed on the screen: I have everything I need. Press send?

Sirae’s breath froze, her entire body going cold as she locked eyes with Cael—fear, regret, and all the hunger in the world burning between them.

To be continued...