The city seemed quieter that night, as if it too was holding its breath. Rain had washed away the streets, leaving them gleaming under pale streetlights. From the penthouse windows, the world looked almost forgiving—but Dominic Wolfe felt none of it. He stood in the shadow of his own reflection, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the skyline he no longer recognized as victory but as a cage.
Adair's absence pressed heavier than her presence ever had. Every room she had walked through still carried the echo of her perfume, the ghost of her laughter, the warmth of her touch. And yet, now, there was only silence—and it was deafening.
When the door clicked open behind him, he didn't turn right away. He knew the rhythm of her footsteps too well, soft but steady, carrying both defiance and grace.
"You shouldn't be here," Dominic said at last, his voice low, restrained, but edged with something close to desperation.
Adair crossed the room, her heels a muted staccato against the polished floor. "And yet I am," she replied, her tone a mixture of exhaustion and resolve. "We can't keep running in circles, Dominic. Whatever this is between us—it's consuming us both."
He turned then, eyes storm-dark, searching her face as if she held the answer to questions he had been too afraid to ask. "You think I don't know that? You think I haven't tried to stop it?"
Her lips trembled, but she steadied them. "Then stop pretending you're the only one bleeding from this."
For a moment, the silence stretched again—thick, suffocating—before Dominic crossed the space between them in two sharp strides. His hand hovered near her cheek, not touching, not daring, as though she were both salvation and fire.
"Adair," he murmured, her name breaking on his tongue. "If I let you in, there's no going back. Not for me. Not for you."
Her eyes glistened, not with weakness but with the weight of truth. "Then maybe… maybe we stop looking for a way back."
The space between them collapsed, fragile and dangerous, like wildfire waiting for a spark.