Warm, wine-thick air clings to Corven as he leans against the oak cask. His hands are stained dark with grape, veins visible beneath tanned skin as he reaches for Lessa. She’s caught in a slant of light, curls tumbling free from behind her ear as she laughs, sharp and breathless. Her navy shirt is half-unbuttoned, collar skewed from where Corven’s fingers tugged her close a beat ago. He brushes a damp lock behind her neck, thumb lingering against her jawline, his gaze hungry. Lessa draws in a shaking breath, chest visibly rising beneath the thin fabric—she tries to speak, but her words falter against the press of his lips.

Their kiss is rough; Corven crushes her back against the barrel, his body pinning hers. She arches, mouth opening as his tongue finds hers, hands tangled at his sides gripping his shirt, knuckles whitening. He groans softly when she pulls his belt loose, the dull clatter echoing between them. Lessa’s nails drag across his back as she tilts her head, inviting him deeper; Corven’s hand slides beneath her skirt, fingers tracing the trembling skin of her thigh with maddening patience. She gasps, frustrated, breath catching as his mouth trails along her jaw, then lower, nipping at the hollow of her throat. For a moment, everything is suspended—desire, fear, the suffocating secrecy—except the heat between their bodies, the taste of salt and wine, the way Lessa’s voice cracks as she whispers his name.

Corven smiles, wicked and open for just a second, but vulnerability flickers—he presses his forehead to hers, breathing against her lips. “If anyone finds us—” he starts, voice hoarse.

She kisses him again, desperate, almost angry. “I don’t care,” she lies, and he knows it. But neither moves to stop.

Footsteps echo outside. Instinctively, their bodies jerk apart. Lessa smooths her skirt, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, gaze darting to the door as she steadies her breathing. Corven’s eyes linger—wanting more, but his jaw tightens. He straightens, quick smile fading as footsteps die away. Lessa’s hands tremble as she gathers her notes, jaw set with familiar determination.

Later, at home, Lessa stares at her cracked phone screen, perched on the edge of a rumpled couch. Her clothing’s askew, and there’s wine-purple along her wrists where he’d held her. She listens to her mother’s voice—weak, apologizing from a hospital bed. Lessa swallows hard, fighting emotion, forcing herself upright. She taps out a text to Corven, deletes it, rewrites: “I need you.”

Across town, in a room of polished glass and steel, Briq Vessiel leans back in his leather chair. His suit is immaculate—navy tailored to knife-sharp lines, tie knotted with precision—but his eyes are cold, watchful. He swipes through photos on his phone, pausing at the blurred image of Corven and Lessa slipping from the barrel room, lips still fresh from their secret. His mouth twists into a knowing sneer. The room is silent but for the soft click as he saves the image, thumb hovering over “send.”

At the festival committee meeting, tensions crackle. Lessa arrives late, hastily tucking stray curls behind her ear, jaw clenched. Corven’s eyes meet hers across the table—hot, electric, but carefully blank. Briq sits at the head, posture rigid, drumming fingers in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He levels a thin smile at Corven. “You always did prefer hands-on management,” he says, the words heavy with implication.

Lessa stares him down. “Some of us do our own work,” she snaps, voice sharper than intended.

Briq’s gaze moves from her to Corven, his smile tightening. “Just don’t let personal entanglements cloud judgment. We can’t all afford distractions this year.” The words hang. Corven’s fists clench unseen beneath the table.

As the meeting breaks, Lessa’s phone vibrates—an anonymous text: “Is he worth losing everything?”

The hallway is empty save for Briq, watching from the shadows, eyes burning with cruel satisfaction. Lessa stares at the message, hands shaking, realizing the danger has found them.

To be continued...