Ellory sat hunched over her laptop, red curls tumbling from a loose bun, fingers dancing anxiously on the keys. Her oversized blazer nearly swallowed her narrow shoulders, sleeves brushing her knuckles as she scanned the late-night reports, blue light reflecting off her glasses and highlighting the faded, silvery scars on her wrist. Every so often, she chewed her lower lip, the soft sound swallowed by the hush of the office after hours. Joren drifted in, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, quiet eyes watching her with gentle worry. He leaned on the edge of her borrowed desk. “You should really go home,” he murmured, voice warm as cashmere, his hand fidgeting with the watch on his wrist.

She looked up, startled, caught in the soft velvet of his gaze. There was comfort in the way he existed—never pushing, simply anchoring. “Almost done,” she promised, eyes darting back to the glowing screen. He didn’t move, just offered a crooked smile, worry written in the creases at the corners of his mouth. “People like Silar,” Joren tried, voice softer now, “they’re… complicated. Don’t let him rattle you.” Ellory’s cheeks flushed, a telltale pink blooming across her freckles. She bit back a confession, only nodding.

Joren hesitated, then reached across the desk, his hand warm and large as it closed gently over hers. It was a careful squeeze, not possessive—almost reverent, as though her skin was a secret he longed to know but wouldn’t dare. “You’re stronger than you think, Ell.” It was something she needed, even if she couldn’t accept it. Still, she withdrew her hand, folding her arms tight. “I should go,” she whispered, voice trembling just on the edge of gratitude and fear.

The moment splintered as voices echoed from the hallway—Silar’s low, magnetic laughter, Tael’s sharper, biting reply. Silar glided in, suit flawless, stubble framing that sculpted jaw. The way he leaned in doorways, swagger lazy and predatory, drew eyes even from the shadows. His gaze found Ellory, zeroing in with a flash of something hungry, competitive, electric.

“There you are,” Tael announced, striding in behind Silar, every inch the model—expensive, tailored, dangerous. He smirked at Silar, then at Ellory. “Show me the penthouse magic. Impress me.” It was a challenge, and Silar met it with a cocky tilt of his head, his tongue swiping distractedly over the edge of his teeth. Ellory’s pulse hammered. Silar’s hand brushed the small of her back, igniting a riot of sensation that left her breathless.

In the elevator, Silar leaned close, voice molten as he whispered, “Ready to put on a show?” She caught her reflection in the mirrored walls—scars, nerves, wanting. Silar’s eyes lingered on her, not missing a single tremor, and for a heartbeat she saw past his smirk to the ache beneath.

Inside the penthouse model, Tael sprawled on the sofa, arms folded, eyes sharp. “Convince me you two have chemistry,” he challenged. The words hung between them—permission and dare. Silar’s mask slipped into place, but when his fingers traced Ellory’s jaw, the air thickened. He pulled her close, hands gentle but undeniable, pressing her gently against the cold window. His lips hovered near hers. “Trust me,” he breathed.

The kiss exploded—messy, fevered, desperate, nothing staged about it. Ellory melted against him, heels sliding off as his hand fanned across her waist, then up her side, fingers trembling when he found the lines of her scars. He didn’t flinch; his thumb drew gentle circles over the raised skin. Ellory gasped, tears prickling, both exposed and seen. Her arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer, every muscle straining between surrender and shame.

Tael’s voice was a distant rumble, “Now that’s a sale.” The moment broke, but Silar lingered, forehead pressed to Ellory’s, panting, his eyes wild and pleading. For a second, their guards fell away—real, raw, terrified.

Back downstairs, as the glass doors slid open, Silar leaned in, voice trembling with truth only she would hear. “I wasn’t pretending.” She shivered, unable to answer as Tael watched, a strange glint in his gaze—calculating, hungry, dangerous.

To be continued...