Caelix tightened his grip on the edge of the bar, the city rumbling under distant thunder. Tonight the glass in his hand wasn't the only thing trembling. His blazer—velvet black, casual over a charcoal shirt—hung loose on his shoulders, yet every muscle was taut, watching Rysa lean her elbows into the wet rooftop railing. She’d left a careless streak of mascara under her right eye, a faint smudge of battle after a day spent fending off rivals. Her fire-red blouse clung to her, rain-spotted and sheer in the storm’s glow, hair wild and tangled, lips parted, pulse fluttering in her throat. He should walk away. Instead, he drifted closer, tracking how she flinched but didn’t turn.

Rysa felt the hum of Caelix’s presence like static. All day she’d watched Zevan watch her, and all day she’d wanted to explode—run, scream, tear something down. The wind lashed her bare forearms, sharp with cold and longing. She didn't trust herself to speak. She didn’t trust Caelix either. Which was, in a way, why she let herself want him. His cologne cut through ozone and adrenaline. He stopped inches away, draping an arm above her head, blocking out the rest of the world.

“Don’t pretend you don’t feel it,” he murmured, voice thick and dangerous. His gaze darted from her eyes to her mouth, searching, begging her to deny what was so obvious in the clench of her jaw. Rysa’s laugh was bitter; she tipped her chin up defiantly, all armor and invitation.

Lightning forked over the skyline. Caelix leaned in, hand sliding to her waist, seeking permission in a trembling silence. Rysa’s fist curled in his jacket; she pulled him into her, their mouths colliding—urgent, bruising, tasting rain. His stubble rasped her cheek. Her breath caught; somewhere in the desperate clutch of hands and teeth, she let him see how badly she wanted to forget everything else.

She shoved him back against the wall, reckless and hungry. Caelix’s confidence cracked—he whimpered, needier than he meant to be. She kissed the hollow at his throat, scraping nails over his collarbone. His fingers tangled in her hair, gentle but insistent, drawing her closer even as the storm hammered harder, thunder shaking the rooftop beneath them.

“I should hate you,” she whispered, voice jagged. “I should hate how easy this is.”

He pressed their foreheads together, his breath hot, his suit soaked through. “So hate me. Kiss me anyway.” His hands dared lower, sliding under her blouse, tracing along heated skin. The moment was no longer tender—just pain pressed against pain, confession only the storm could overhear.

They devoured each other—shivering, tangled limbs, the sting of rain on bare flesh, heat rising despite the chill. For a moment, they were only sensation: taste, sound, the shock of touch, the relief of surrender. Her laugh broke loose—raw, almost a sob—and he caught it with his mouth. Every kiss left a mark, every gasp a confession neither would dare voice in daylight.

Hours passed, or minutes. Rysa finally pushed him away, fingers trembling, chest rising and falling with something close to grief. “We’re a disaster,” she said.

Caelix grinned, rueful, desperate. “You make me want to set the world on fire.”

A door slammed below. Rysa jerked upright, heart pounding. She wiped her face, shame and need fighting in her eyes. With trembling hands, she reached for Caelix’s tie, knotting it around his wrist—a mark, a secret promise.

Meanwhile, Theron lingered in the elevator lobby inside—shoulders hunched, hoodie damp against his skin—watching as the fraud evidence on his phone flickered in the dim light. He glimpsed Caelix and Rysa on the rooftop, their bodies tangled in silhouette, secrets spilling into the storm. He clutched his phone tighter, the proof burning in his palm.

Below, Zevan wandered into the security office, rain streaming from his hair. He glanced at a flickering CCTV feed—caught, for one gut-wrenching moment, the unmistakable outline of Rysa arching against Caelix, lightning illuminating their faces. Zevan’s stomach twisted with shock, betrayal, and something bitterly like relief.

Upstairs, Rysa hurried away, eyes shining and haunted, leaving Caelix alone in the storm, tie dangling from his wrist, thunder echoing the chaos inside his chest. The triangle was broken wide open.

To be continued...