Belise leans against the mahogany edge of the executive suite’s window, city lights reflected in her glasses. Her tailored slate-blue dress hugs every purposeful movement, the fabric catching hints of the late-night office glare. There’s a calculated tension in the set of her dark brows and the way she keeps her lips pressed—never a smile unless she means it. She watches Yulian pace; his shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms tense with something almost feral. His hair, usually immaculate, is mussed, eyes rimmed in sleepless black, the restlessness in his stance coiled like a threat or a plea.

He stops in front of her, too close, his breath sharp. “You’re enjoying this,” he accuses, his voice raw, accusation barely masking need.

Belise’s eyes flick downward, lingering on the bruised edge of his jaw—a mark from private battles. She shrugs one shoulder, casual, dangerous. “I don’t need to enjoy it,” she murmurs. “I just need to win.” But there’s a tremor in her fingers where they clutch her phone—she hates that he notices, more that she cares.

He steps in, crowding her against the glass, his hands flat to either side of her hips. For a brief, charged moment neither of them moves. The city glitters behind them, anonymous and indifferent. He searches her face for weakness. What he finds is something else—an invitation, or maybe a dare.

He kisses her like a question he doesn’t want answered. Her back arches just enough to press her even closer. In the hush of night and ambition, they collide. She pulls his belt open with practiced ease, her nails dragging lines up his spine. His hands shape her waist—firm, almost punishing—his mouth at her throat. All the while, distrust seeps in, slowing every thrust, every gasp, with the memory of secrets too sharp to forget.

When it’s over, he slumps against her, breathing ragged. Belise’s hair is tangled, her dress skewed. She fixes him with a look equal parts disdain and longing. “This doesn’t make us allies,” she says, voice unsteady.

He smirks, but his eyes search hers with raw hope. “I don’t need an ally. I need the truth.”

She buttons her dress with trembling hands, watching him from the corner of her eye. He moves toward her laptop, curiosity lit behind his exhaustion. The screen glows to life, files haphazard and unguarded for a single, fatal minute. Yulian’s gaze catches on a folder—his name, Laerise’s, Sciro’s. His breath stutters. “What is this?” he demands, voice flat.

“Don’t,” Belise warns, voice catching—regret and panic war together in her eyes, the briefest flicker of vulnerability between her lashes.

But he’s already opening the files, scrolling through texts, photos, proof of betrayal—every secret weapon she’s been hoarding, including his own sabotage and Laerise’s debts. The room goes silent except for the steady hum of the city outside and his racing heartbeat. Belise stands frozen, shoulders taut, every inch of her betraying the war between ambition and the ache to reach for him.

He looks up, face blank with shock, a thousand questions burning behind his eyes. “How long have you been planning this?”

Her lip quivers, just once, before she forces composure. “Long enough. You forced me to.”

He laughs, bitter and broken. “You say that like you ever had a choice.”

They stand, a heartbeat apart, neither willing to move first. Trust burns away, leaving only want and ruin—and the glint of a USB drive in Belise’s trembling hand, her thumb hovering over the eject button, uncertain whether to destroy them all or herself.

To be continued...