“Too late,” he murmured.
And it was. I wasn’t the man I’d spent my whole life pretending to be anymore. I didn’t know how to go back but I had to force myself into that box again.
By Thursday night,I was a wreck. Short-tempered. Exhausted. My body was moving through the motions of responsibility, but my mind—my mind was a shattered loop of moments I couldn’t escape. Guilt curled in my gut like razor wire, coiled so tight I couldn’t breathe without feeling it cut.
I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think. I jumped at shadows and flinched at every voice that wasn’t his. And when I was alone, I chased memories like they were the only real thing left in my life. His mouth. His hands. The way he looked at me, like he saweverything—the lies, the hunger, the fear—and didn’t flinch.
I’d built my world on discipline. On order. On control. A fortress of polished manners and curated distance. The perfect son. The obedient heir. A man no one could reach.
But one kiss had cracked the foundation.
The second? Shattered it.
Now I was clinging to the edge of a cliff with bleeding fingertips, slipping inch by inch toward the fall I’d sworn I’d never let happen.
Friday night, I walked into the club’s main salon just before it was due to close. I told myself I was checking on the staff and maintaining relationships with our members. That the renovations and budget reviews for the summer gala had kept me too distracted lately.
That was a lie.
I just wanted to see him. Needed to—to prove he was real and not some fever dream my guilt and longing had conjured.
He was behind the bar, polishing glasses, sleeves rolled up, those damn curls falling into his eyes. He laughed at something Thalia said—an easy, full-bodied sound that belonged to someonefree.
Someone unruined. He didn’t look like he’d been kissed until he broke. He didn’t look haunted. He looked alive and healthy, the complete opposite of me. Clearly, I was the only one still drowning.
Our eyes met. Just for a second. But his smile faltered, and something deep in my chest wrenched. His gaze held mine, unmoving and heavy. As if he felteverythingI was trying not to feel. He didn’t smile again, just watched me—quiet, and still—like a flame waiting for breath.
Thalia’s gaze flicked between us, sharp and accusing. She didn’t speak. She didn’tneedto. Her look was a warning wrapped in steel:Whatever this is—kill it, or survive it. There is no middle ground.
I left before I did something catastrophic.
Again.
By Saturday, I was unraveling.
The guilt was louder than ever—louder than my father’s voicemails, louder than the tight schedule and managerial duties I kept hiding behind. Louder than Timothy’s passive-aggressive remarks and the endless parade of expectations.
I had kissed someone who worked for me. Someone I had power over. Someone I could hurt without even meaning to.
That Iwashurting.
That should have been enough to bury me. But it didn’t, because beneath the shame and panic, something darker pulsed. I didn’t regret it.
Not the first kiss. Not the second.
I didn’t regret tasting him—I regretted stopping.
I regretted not swiping the desk clear and bending him over it. Regretted not licking the sweat off his collarbone and mapping out the sin-soaked lines of his body until I knew them better than my own. I was too far gone. I knew it.
“Fancy seeing you here…” His voice ghosted behind me, smooth as silk, as I stared at my reflection in my office window.
A sharp exhale escaped my throat. I didn’t turn around to face him. I couldn’t. My legs were locked, my chest was heaving.
“What are you doing here?” I managed, though my voice came out raw.
The door shut behind him with a soft click. But it may as well have been a gunshot. The air tightened. The walls felt closer. He stepped nearer, slow and deliberate. I could feel the heat of him already.
“You looked pale.” He paused as he assessed me. “Wanted to check you were still breathing.”
