Corven stands near the weathered oak barrels, a fitted shirt dusted with grape residue clinging to his frame, sleeves casually rolled, collar half-open, revealing that golden triangle of skin at his throat. He glances up from a ledger when Lessa steps in—hair twisted up haphazardly, dark eyes rimmed with fatigue, but she still smiles when he catches her gaze. He drawls, "Late again, Mirunne," but her only answer is a smirk as she slips between casks, her hand grazing his as she passes. The air between them hums. For a beat, it seems like she’ll say something real, but instead, Lessa bites her lip, scanning the door, nerves flickering across her features. Corven’s eyes linger on her—wide, wary, longing.

He lowers his voice, teasing. “If you keep coming in here after hours, someone’s going to start rumors.” Lessa laughs, but the sound cracks. Her fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, needy and tense. “Let them,” she whispers, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She presses closer, letting herself be pinned between his body and a chilled barrel. He kisses her—slow and consuming, hands sliding up her back, desperate for reassurance. For a moment, Lessa melts, arms winding around his neck. She forgets about the call from her mother, about the suffocating anxiety that clings to her like a second skin.

But the taste of him is bittersweet tonight. When they part, she lets her head fall forward, forehead brushing his chest. “You can’t protect me from everything, Corven.” He tucks a stray curl behind her ear, touches gentle but eyes fierce. “Maybe not. But I can love you through it.” That word—love—hangs in the air, unspoken but roaring in their silence.

Later, as Lessa rushes home, the fading sunlight slanting through the kitchen window is cold. Her phone vibrates—her mother’s voice, weary and frightened on the other end, the old pain sharpening. When the call ends, Lessa sinks to the floor, knees drawn to her chest, tears streaking mascara over her cheekbones. She’s barely breathing when Corven’s text lights up her screen: I need you. Always.

A few miles away, Briq Vessiel adjusts his tailored jacket with clinical precision, every button and crease immaculate. The expression on his face is carved from ice as he prowls the busy corridor of the estate office. He lingers at the window, eyes dark and assessing, watching Corven’s car pull away from Lirae’s drive. To the staff, he merely nods—curt, barely civil—but his mind is already ticking, analyzing, hunting for flaws. He watches Lessa’s hurried silhouette with narrowed interest, mouth curling into a predatory smile.

At the festival meeting later that week, tension spikes. Lessa arrives in a slim black blouse, face scrubbed pale but lips painted a stubborn red. Briq stands at the far end of the long table, posture rigid, arms crossed. “You’re late. Again,” he says, voice a silken threat. Lessa shoots back, “Maybe you should stop timing everyone and do something useful,” her tone low and dangerous. They glare across the paperwork and steaming mugs—neither willing to yield, old rivalry palpable.

Corven enters, hair tousled, faint stubble shading his jaw, and his smile—directed only at Lessa—lingers too long. Briq watches their exchange with razor-sharp focus, noting every flicker of warmth, every slip in their defenses. When Corven leans in to murmur something that makes Lessa’s mouth quirk, Briq’s knuckles tighten against the table.

After the meeting, Lessa and Corven slip away, laughter trailing behind them like a promise. Briq follows at a distance, steps measured, predatory calm in every movement. In the dusky parking lot, he lifts his phone, snapping a photo as Lessa leans into Corven, both oblivious to the watching world, lips still swollen from a kiss stolen in the shadows.

The next evening, as Lessa sorts through invoices beneath the weak kitchen light, her phone buzzes with a blocked message. On the screen: a blurry photo of her and Corven, dangerously close. The text reads: Is he worth losing everything?

Lessa’s hand shakes. Her mind races—guilt, dread, a sick thrill of defiance. She doesn’t know she’s being watched, her secrets already weaponized, the first crack in her careful facade beginning to split.

To be continued...