Belise slipped through the empty corridor in her usual tailored black, a silhouette sharpened by heels that barely made a sound on the polished floor. Her hair was smooth, tight, not a strand out of place, but a careful observer would notice the way her hand clutched her phone—knuckles bone-white, tension humming beneath her perfect exterior. She paused at the glass wall outside the break room, just long enough to catch her own reflection: cool, unreadable, the sort of woman people underestimated. She liked it that way.

Inside, Sciro leaned against the counter, all careless elegance—shirt open at the collar, jacket tossed aside. His lips curled into that infuriating, too-practiced half-smile as he noticed her watching him. “Belise,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, “You always appear when the air’s thick with secrets.” He moved closer, the fluid confidence of a man who’d never needed to second-guess himself. She studied his hands—the flick of a thumb along his jaw, the restless motion betraying nerves he’d never admit. His eyes flickered, unsettled for just a second.

She held his gaze, her own voice wrapped in velvet and steel. “I don’t chase secrets, Sciro. They find me.” His laugh was soft, almost mocking, but there was a hint of something real beneath it. As he stepped into her space, she caught the faintest tremor in his breath. He wanted something from her—information, absolution, maybe just a taste of control. He reached out, his fingers brushing her wrist in a touch so light it made her skin burn. The moment stretched, thrumming with tension.

“Did you come to warn me,” he whispered, eyes flicking to her mouth, “or to see if I’m as dangerous as you think?” She let herself lean in, close enough to share breath, and for a flash his composure slipped. Her pulse kicked as he pressed her back against the counter, hands hungry at her hips. The kiss was sharp, bruising, a contest and a confession all at once—neither willing to break, to surrender. His body was warm, insistent, pinning her, but she matched him for every desperate motion, fingers tangled in his shirt, mouth unyielding.

For one dizzy, reckless minute, it felt like falling. But as Sciro pulled away, heart pounding, he searched her with a new wariness. “You’re not as cold as you want to be,” he said, almost tender. She nearly laughed at the idea, but something in her chest twisted. She traced her thumb along the edge of his jaw, her voice a warning and a promise. “And you’re not as invincible.” They stood, breathing hard, neither sure who had won or lost.

Laerise’s laugh echoed distantly down the hall, shrill, but edged with anxiety. Belise straightened, smoothing her skirt, mask sliding back in place. Sciro wiped the color from his mouth with a thumb, trying to look bored, but she saw the way his fingers trembled. He grabbed his jacket, trying to reclaim the upper hand. “You want leverage, Belise, you’ll have to play dirtier than that.” She just smiled, cold and perfect.

Later, alone, she sat in the pool of lamplight at her desk. She pulled a battered envelope from her bag, sliding out notes scribbled in her tiny, precise hand: “Yulian—sabotage, Laerise—debts, Sciro—leak.” Every name was a weapon waiting to be used. Her reflection in the screen looked almost kind, almost gentle, and she recoiled from it. She pressed the envelope to her lips, needing the cool sting of paper, needing to remember what she was capable of.

Down the hall, Yulian’s bitter laughter echoed—a warning, a dare. Laerise’s high heels snapped like gunshots. Sciro’s scent lingered on her skin, sweet and sharp. The game was shifting. Trust would become someone’s undoing.

As Belise powered down the lamp, a single text lit up her phone: “Choose your side, or it’ll be chosen for you.” Her thumb hovered, heart slamming, as she wiped the screen clean.

To be continued...