I’d stayed in hundreds of luxury suites around the world—penthouse floors, skyline views, marble floors polished to within an inch of their lives. They all started to blur after a while.
But tonight, I noticed everything.
The faint tick of the modern art clock on the wall. The ice melting in the crystal glass on the sideboard. The way my reflection looked in the full-length window—sharp suit, bruised jaw, nerves I couldn’t quite disguise.
She was coming.
And I had no idea what the hell I was going to say when she did.
I crossed to the bar again, poured a second vodka I didn’t need, and stared out across Seoul’s glittering skyline. The view from the top of the tower was stupidly impressive. It was supposed to scream power, control, success.
But all I could think was—Will she think I’m showing off?
The knock came. Three sharp raps, like a gavel calling me to judgement.
I didn’t hesitate. Just moved to the door and opened it.
She stood there, haloed by hallway light. Black jeans. Fitted top. Lips glossy, eyes bright.
And the second our eyes met, all that nervous tension in my chest pulled tight again.
“Room 1004,” she said softly, like it was a password.
“Come in,” I said, stepping aside.
She entered, eyes sweeping the space with that sharp journalistic gaze of hers. I watched her take it all in—the sleek modern furniture, the skyline view, the minimalist opulence. Her brows lifted just a fraction.
“Nice digs,” she murmured.
“It’s… standard,” I said, then winced internally at how ridiculous that sounded.
She turned slowly to face me, one brow arching in clear amusement. “Standard? You’ve got a Japanese soaking tub, a massage menu, and the bed is bigger than my whole room.”
I didn’t answer. Mostly because I didn’t trust myself to.
Instead, I walked past her to the window, trying to look relaxed. “The view’s better from over here.”
She followed. Stopped beside me. Close enough that I could smell her perfume—citrus and something warmer underneath. Her arm brushed mine.
The city stretched out beneath us, lit in gold and blue. Somewhere out there, the circuit was sleeping.
But in here, something was wide awake.
“So, Champion,” she said, voice low, eyes still on the glass. “Is this the part where you kiss me, or the part where we pretend this was all a mistake?”
I turned to face her fully. And that was it. The moment.
The air shifted. The distance vanished.
And we stopped pretending.
Her words hit like a match to dry fuel.
I didn’t answer.
I just reached for her.
We crashed together—weeks of tension snapping taut. Her fingers fisted in my shirt, yanking me close as my hands found her waist, then her back, pulling her flush against me. Her mouth opened beneath mine, warm and wet and hungry.
