Yulian arrives late, shouldering through the glass doors with his hair tousled and his tie already loose, defiance simmering beneath the surface of his carefully blank expression. He scans the table—everyone arrayed like chess pieces, but his eyes catch on Laerise first. Her black suit is sharper than her stare, lips painted a dangerous, amused red. She doesn’t blink as he sits across from her, just cocks an eyebrow, daring him to reclaim the power he’d snatched so carelessly in the boardroom that morning.

He lets his jaw tense, not risking a word. When Sciro strides in, the room shifts, almost imperceptibly—a ripple of awareness, like static before a storm. Sciro’s smile is easy, practiced, his blue shirt hinting at relaxation, but his eyes are ruthlessly attentive, flickering between Laerise and Yulian as he slides into the seat between them. “Hope I’m not interrupting,” he murmurs, letting his fingertips graze Yulian’s sleeve with casual intimacy. The touch is brief, calculated, but Yulian’s pulse jumps, face betraying nothing except the tightening of his fists under the table.

Laerise rolls her wine glass between her palms, chin tilted, her smirk deepening. “Not at all. We were just discussing how miracles only happen when certain people know when to keep their mouths shut.” It’s aimed at Yulian, but Sciro just laughs, leaning close enough to let his breath stir the hair at her ear. “If only miracles paid overtime,” he murmurs, voice pitched for only her. Laerise’s smile flickers, uncertain for a heartbeat, then she takes a long sip, daring either of them to make her care.

Conversation blurs—a battle of compliments sharpened into daggers, laughter that cuts too close. Sciro’s hand rests at Yulian’s elbow, his thumb tracing a circle through the fabric. Yulian’s skin burns, a war inside his head: fight, flee, or take what he wants right now. Across the table, Laerise’s gaze lingers on Sciro’s touch, her jealousy masked only by her laughter—slightly too loud, desperately controlled.

Later, under harsh fluorescent lights in the underground parking lot, Yulian finds Laerise pressed against a pillar, phone clutched like a shield. He barely gets out “What the hell was that—” before she pulls him by his undone tie, her mouth finding his hard and desperate. His hands slam to the concrete on either side of her head, boxing her in, need and anger tangled in every frantic movement. Her nails carve crescents into his back. They’re a mess of biting, gasping, grappling for dominance as if pain could settle the score.

He shudders as she bites his lip, forcing a moan from somewhere deep and raw. “You think you can use me?” he growls. “Watch me,” she snaps, her voice trembling, equal parts triumph and terror. They crash together again, sweat-slick and panting, every touch a dare. For a moment, nothing exists but the bruising heat between them—until the orgasm leaves Yulian wrecked, clinging to her as if he might drown.

But as the aftershocks shudder through him, shame takes over. He pulls away, shoulders rigid, dragging his hands through his hair. “This never happened,” he spits, voice cracked, refusing to meet her eyes. Laerise straightens her dress, wiping smeared lipstick with a trembling hand. Her composure shatters for just a second—vulnerability flaring, then ruthlessly buried.

From the shadows, Sciro’s silhouette emerges—just a flash—and the soft red glow of a phone screen records the sound of their frantic breathing, the whispered threats, the cries of pleasure and pain. A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his lips as he slips away, audio saved, leverage secured.

To be continued...