Briq stood at the edge of the loading dock, expensive shirt rolled to his elbows, jaw tight as stone. His gaze cut through the early shadows, settling on Corven’s figure—broad shoulders tense, back slicked with sweat under a faded tee as he barked orders to the workers. Briq’s lips curled into a faint, mocking smile. He strode closer, shoes immaculate on the dusty ground, and paused just long enough for Corven to notice.

“You’re running late,” Briq murmured, voice slick as oil. The corners of his mouth twitched, daring Corven to speak. Corven didn’t blink, wiping his brow, wine-stained hands flexing unconsciously.

“Maybe if you’d stop scaring off the temp crews, we’d actually be ahead,” Corven shot back, the edge in his tone almost too controlled. He looked up, eyes sharp, mouth set but trembling with something like rage—or fear.

Briq’s eyes flicked to the warehouse, lowering his voice. “Careful, Lirae. Lose your grip and you lose everything.” His hand brushed too close to Corven’s shoulder, a gesture full of threat and implication.

Corven forced a dry laugh, but inside his throat was tight, the pulse at his neck fluttering. “You should worry about your own hands getting dirty,” he whispered, lips just brushing Briq’s ear before he broke away. Briq’s fingers clenched imperceptibly at his sides.

Hours later, Lessa paced Corven’s office, fiddling with the hem of her skirt, her hair wild from running between appointments. Corven poured a glass of unfinished red, his knuckles white against the stem, the argument with Briq still echoing. When Lessa stepped closer, he let his guard slip, catching her wrist, drawing her toward him. Her body pressed to his, heartbeat thudding, eyes searching his face for some reassurance he couldn’t give.

“Tell me what he said,” she demanded, voice low and bruised. Corven shook his head, but Lessa’s expression was fierce, her lips twitching with unspent anger. He pulled her in, forehead to hers, the heat between them electric—every inhale a dare, every exhale a surrender. For a moment, the world shrank to the space between their mouths, the wine-soaked air around them.

A knock shattered the tension. Lessa spun around, cheeks flushed, her blouse slightly askew. It was Senne, eyes cool behind her fringe, clipboard hugged to her chest. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, gaze flicking over them, weighing secrets. Her dress was plain but fitted, and the set of her shoulders gave nothing away—except her gaze lingered just a second too long on Corven’s hand at Lessa’s waist.

Senne’s own defenses were fraying. Later, she found herself trapped in the festival storeroom with Briq, the scent of him—leather and sweat—sparking memory and anger. He reached for her, and she slapped his hand away, voice shaking. “You don’t get to touch me like that, not anymore.” But Briq only stepped closer, his eyes storm-dark, hunger and regret flickering in their depths.

“What do you want from me, Senne?” he demanded, almost desperate. She opened her mouth to retort, but he caught her jaw, the tension snapping. Their lips collided with bruising force, hands clawing at buttons and fabric. Senne shoved him against the door, breath catching as his hands slid under her skirt, her pulse wild with fury and need. She wrenched away, tears stinging her eyes, voice raw—“We can’t—” but Briq’s mouth crashed down on hers, swallowing her protest. In the haze, want and resentment tangled, leaving them both breathless, ruined.

By nightfall, Lessa sifted through Briq’s files, nerves humming. She found a folder, its edges worn. Inside—a contract, dated years ago, bearing Senne’s name alongside Briq’s. Realization swept through her in a silent, cold wave.

Her fingers trembled. The night pressed in, a thousand secrets about to break the surface.

To be continued...