Ithran woke tangled in gold light and Lera’s limbs, bare skin pressed together beneath the crumpled sheets on his mattress. Her hair, sleep-mussed and falling over her collarbone, caught the sun with every slight movement. She lay on her side, one knee slotted between his, tracing the line of his shoulder silently. He watched her mouth—unsmiling, thoughtful, the gloss from last night long faded. She always looked sharp-edged in daylight, eyes unblinking, but now there was a softness he’d never seen. He wanted to memorize the shape of her, the hush of her vulnerability, even as he knew she’d hate him for noticing it.

She pulled her hand away, tucking the sheet against her chest, suddenly chilly. “Why do you always look at people like that?” she murmured, voice throaty from sleep, wariness laced with want. Ithran could smell him on her skin, dizzy and grounding at once.

“I just want to remember,” he confessed, letting his thumb brush her hip. He felt the tension—her desire to lean in, and the tighter instinct to jerk away. It made his pulse race, fear and lust and longing all knotted together. He almost kissed her again, but she twisted out of bed, standing rigid, back to him. She pulled on a black slip dress, bared shoulders straightening like armor. He noticed the way her hands trembled as she twisted her hair up, and it sent a pang through him—she wasn’t as untouchable as she pretended.

He rose, shirtless, jeans half-zipped, the bruises on his collarbone still fresh from last night. “You don’t have to run,” he offered, gentle but unsteady. Lera met his gaze in the mirror, chin lifted, lips set in a line that dared him to say more.

“I’m not running,” she said, voice clipped. “I just have a life. I don’t—” Her words caught, sharp. “I don’t want this if it means I lose everything I’ve built.”

He stepped close behind her, tracing her spine with two fingers, and she shivered in spite of herself. “You’re not going to lose me,” he promised, but she only glared, daring him to believe it.

Downstairs, Sidelle watched them emerge—her uniform crisp, eyes rimmed with envy, lips twisted in a mock-smile. She feigned busy, furiously wiping the counter, her hands shaking enough to rattle the mugs. She kept her gaze on Ithran, their brief glance loaded with everything they would never say. She wanted to punish them for being so easy together. As Lera ordered coffee, Sidelle leaned in, her tone falsely sweet. “You two look well-rested. Must be nice.” Her stare lingered on Ithran a second too long.

Lera’s eyes narrowed. “Some of us sleep at night, Sidelle. Try it.” Ithran tried not to flinch at Sidelle’s smirk—she held too many of his secrets in her small, callused hands.

Outside, the rumors Sidelle had seeded were already blooming. Whispered in smoky corners, texted in cryptic bursts, doubts about Lera’s professionalism and Ithran’s fidelity spread like wildfire. He felt it in the glances club regulars shot him, in the brittle way Lera’s phone never stopped buzzing. The air was thick with suspicion and judgment, every smile too sharp, every compliment edged with threat.

Meanwhile, Rhysant lingered at the bar in his own empty club, hands white-knuckled around a tumbler of bad whiskey, suit jacket slung carelessly over his chair. He looked exhausted—the press of failure written into each crease beside his eyes. Earlier, he’d nearly told Lera how deeply he wanted her—how she haunted him, an ache in his chest—but he’d swallowed the confession with barely a flicker of emotion. He told himself it was pride, but the truth gnawed at him.

Lera, feeling the ground shift beneath her, flicked through her phone, pulse leaping with every new notification. She eyed Ithran warily, pride refusing to let her reach for his hand, though the urge thrummed beneath her skin. She wondered if letting herself need him would ruin everything or save her from herself entirely.

By nightfall, alliances had splintered. Friends avoided eye contact; Sidelle stood alone outside the shop, smoke curling from her lips as she watched the others. Even she sensed the tides turning against her, but her jaw was set, determined to stay relevant.

Alone in the deserted club, Rhysant tore open a manila envelope—a foreclosure notice, the last hollow blow. His reflection in the bar mirror looked back, empty, untethered. He laughed once, brittle and raw, and silence swallowed the sound.

Outside, the city hissed with secrets. And far above the crowded streets, a camera flash from an unseen window caught Ithran and Lera tangled again in silhouette, exposing them to whoever was watching.

To be continued…