The rain softened to a whisper against the windows, a quiet rhythm that filled the silence between them. Emilia lay with her head resting on Sebastian's chest, one of his arms wrapped lightly around her. Their legs were tangled, their breaths synced, but the space between skin and soul had never felt more delicate.
Neither of them spoke for a long while.
Not because there was nothing to say.
But because the quiet felt sacred.
Sebastian's fingers idly traced soft patterns along her arm—absent-minded, soothing. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just... present.
"You don't ask questions," Emilia said quietly, her voice muffled against him.
"I will," he replied. "When you're ready to answer them."
She tilted her head slightly to look at him. "And what if I never am?"
"Then I'll wait." His eyes searched hers. "I'd rather have pieces of you than a perfect version of someone else."
That undid her a little.
It wasn't poetry, or charm.
It was real.
"You're dangerous," she whispered. "You make it feel easy to fall."
His hand found hers, fingers lacing through. "Then don't fall."
She blinked, startled by the softness in his tone.
"Stay," he said, "exactly where you are. With me. For as long as it feels right."
The words settled between them like warmth under skin.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just space—safe space.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, clinging without realizing it.
"I've never stayed the night before," she admitted, her voice fragile. "Not like this."
Sebastian leaned down and pressed a kiss into her hair. "Then sleep, Emilia. No one's chasing you here."
A pause.
She swallowed.
"Promise me you won't treat me like a secret."
He nodded against her. "I'll be whatever you need me to be. But I won't let you pretend I don't matter."
Her throat tightened.
---
Dawn broke gently, casting pale gold light across Sebastian's modest apartment. The city was still half-asleep, the streets quiet, the air holding onto the hush of the night before.
Emilia sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed but unmoving, her eyes on Sebastian's sleeping form. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his hand curled slightly where it had rested near hers.
She didn't want to move.
Didn't want to leave this space where nothing was expected of her except to be.
But her phone had shattered that illusion an hour earlier.
Three missed calls.
A string of messages from her assistant, all marked URGENT.
She stood carefully, her heels in hand, tiptoeing across the hardwood floor like a woman sneaking out of a dream. At the door, she turned for one last glance—his tousled hair, his bare chest, the slow peace on his face.
Part of her wanted to crawl back in beside him.
But she didn't belong in peace.
She belonged in war.
---
By the time Emilia stepped into her office, the illusion of serenity had fully crumbled.
Her boardroom was already filled. Angry voices. Tense glances.
Her assistant rushed over. "It's bad," she whispered, eyes wide. "The press got hold of the internal audit. The missing funds... the leaked designs... everything is out."
Emilia's pulse thudded in her ears. "Who leaked it?"
"No idea yet. But it's all over the business feeds."
Emilia took a steadying breath and stepped into the room.
All heads turned. A few executives stood, some in respect, others in barely disguised panic.
"What happened?" she asked sharply.
"We think someone inside the company planted the leak," her CFO said, sliding a tablet toward her. "And whoever it was... they made sure the story painted you as either negligent or complicit."
Emilia's jaw tightened. "Where's Clara?"
"Still silent. No word. But this has her fingerprints."
Her chair scraped as she took a seat at the head of the table.
Her voice was cold steel. "Then find her. Now."
---
Hours later, after meetings, damage control, and a press statement carefully crafted to sound powerful yet unrevealing, Emilia stood alone in her office, the skyline stretching wide beyond the glass walls.
She hadn't messaged Sebastian.
She couldn't.
That space they'd shared was sacred—untouched by the world she now stood in. And she didn't know how to explain this version of herself. The ruthless one. The one who couldn't afford softness.
Her phone buzzed.
A single message from him.
You okay?
She stared at it, fingers hovering.
She wanted to say yes.
She wanted to tell him everything.
But all she sent was:
I'm handling it.
He didn't reply.
Not right away.
But she knew he would be there when she was ready to come back.
If she came back.