Ellory’s hand trembled on the brass doorknob of the SkyEdge model apartment. The air inside pressed close and warm, thick with the honeyed trace of expensive cologne. Silar stood by the window, sunlight glossing his dark hair, his fitted suit jacket carelessly slung over a chair. He caught her reflection and turned, blue eyes flickering with mischief and something deeper. He moved with slow confidence—a practiced ease, every gesture purposeful as he examined her from head to toe.

Her breath faltered. He wore a crisp white shirt, cuffs rolled, the collar open in a careless V at his throat. The play of muscle beneath expensive fabric made Ellory acutely aware of her own body: her plain blouse, the heavy frames of her glasses, the faint swell of discomfort under his gaze. Silar’s lips curled in a half-smile as he stepped closer. “You’re the digital prodigy, right? Want to show me how you’d sell this place—to me?” His voice was low, nearly a dare.

She tried to answer but her throat caught. He crossed the distance in three leisurely steps and, without warning, reached past her to close the door. The click echoed. Silar towered over her, his hand lingering for a heartbeat at her back—a featherlight touch that radiated heat. He leaned in, his breath stirring wisps of her hair. “Go on, Ellory. Pretend I’m your client.” His words were a slow caress.

Desire pulsed through her nerves, so sharp it was almost pain. She tried to stumble into her pitch, voice trembling as she gestured toward the vast window—only for Silar’s hand to catch her wrist, halting her. Their eyes met. His fingers traced the pale scar on her arm, lingering, gentle, his thumb circling her pulse point. Every emotion she’d buried—shame, yearning, fear—flared to the surface. Neither breathed.

He let out a sound—soft, almost regretful. Their faces were so close she could count the gold flecks in his irises, taste mint on his exhale. “You’re shaking,” he murmured. The admission scorched her. “Am I that intimidating?” His lips hovered, hungry, over hers. Then, deliberate, he traced his finger along her jaw, down her throat, and stopped at the hollow above her collarbone, thumb pressing against frantic heartbeat.

As if waking, Ellory jerked back, pulse thrashing. “I—I need to prepare,” she stammered, barely coherent. She turned, nearly tripping on her own feet, but Silar caught her arm, steadying her with hands that lingered too long, as though afraid to let go. Their gazes clashed: his, hungry and searching; hers, wide and skittish. “Later then,” he said, his voice velvet and dangerous.

She fled down the corridor, heart slamming so hard her vision blurred. Even as she escaped, she felt him—his touch, his nearness, the forbidden thrill beneath her skin that lingered like static.

Back at her desk, Ellory tried to steady her hands as she fumbled with a folder. Her cheeks still burned, and she wished the world would swallow her whole. Across the open workspace, Silar laughed with a group of junior agents. He lounged against a glass partition, shirt sleeves still rolled, jaw sharp as a blade—careless in his beauty, eyes flicking to Ellory with a private, knowing glint. The others barely noticed Joren—a tall man in an ill-fitting charcoal suit—moving quietly through the chaos, soothing a furious client with gentle, patient words.

Ellory risked a glance at Joren, his soft smile and tired eyes. He caught her stare, mouthed “You okay?”—his concern a balm she didn’t want to need. She nodded, teeth clamped against tears, and turned away.

Laughter erupted next to her. Peri Lune, a junior agent with a shock of platinum hair, slid into the chair beside Ellory, voice pitched for gossip. “He does this to every new girl, you know.” Ellory’s face flamed; her tongue tripped over a retort. Peri just winked. “Careful. He bites.”

That night, Ellory lay in bed, replaying every second—Silar’s hand at her wrist, his breath on her lips, the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. She pressed her fingers to her jaw, remembering the way his touch rendered her speechless. In the dark, she scrolled through SkyEdge’s website, landing on Silar’s promotional photo, all angles and perfection. She tried to convince herself she hated him.

An alert chimed on her screen—a photo from the office party. Silar, arms draped around two women, grinning like a man who’d never lost sleep over a broken heart. Ellory’s chest twisted, jealousy blazing from somewhere raw and unguarded.

But as she swiped away the image, her phone buzzed with a simple text from an unknown number:
Want to finish that pitch?
—Silar

To be continued...