The next morning, the kitchen was quiet—too quiet.
No coffee cup on the counter. No scent of roasted beans or toast. No Elara.
Jace stood in the center of the pristine space, shirtless, sipping water from a tall glass. His eyes scanned the gleaming countertops, the chrome appliances, the organized spice rack with labels so precise it looked military.
Everything in this penthouse screamed control.
Except him.
He smirked to himself and set the glass down. If she wanted order, he was going to be the storm that made her come undone.
He was tired of guessing. Tired of the subtle stares, the quiet footsteps at midnight, the way she looked at him like he was a weapon she hadn't decided whether to touch—or disarm.
So today, he'd give her a reason to break one of her own rules.
By noon, she still hadn't appeared.
He checked the front door: still locked. Her bedroom door? Also locked.
He'd barely stepped back from it when he heard her voice behind him.
"That door's off-limits."
Jace turned, eyes steady. "I was just checking if you were alive."
Elara stood at the end of the hallway in a dark green robe, loosely tied. Her hair was damp, falling down her back in soft waves. No makeup. Bare feet.
Vulnerable. Almost human.
"You have a strange way of showing concern," she said.
"I figured if you were dead in there, I'd be kicked out anyway."
She raised an eyebrow. "You think everything's a joke."
"No," he said, voice dropping a note. "But I think you like pretending you don't see me."
"I see you," she said, quiet. "Too clearly."
A pause thickened between them.
And then, without another word, she turned and walked into the living room.
Jace followed her, uninvited.
She curled onto her usual chaise by the window, robe shifting to reveal one long thigh. She didn't adjust it.
He stood near the fireplace, watching her.
"You always lock your door?"
"I live alone."
"You don't anymore."
She didn't answer.
Instead, she reached for her glass of wine on the side table and took a slow sip. Morning wine. Rich woman luxury, or something darker?
He stepped closer.
"I think you like control because you're afraid of what happens when you don't have it."
"I think you talk too much," she replied coolly.
He gave a slow grin. "What are you afraid of, Elara?"
She looked at him.
Not just looked. Saw. Deep. Unfiltered.
Then she stood.
"Come," she said simply.
Jace blinked. "What?"
"Follow me."
She led him down the hall—not to her bedroom—but to a door he hadn't noticed before. It opened with a soft click, revealing a staircase. Narrow. Dimly lit.
She descended barefoot. He followed.
At the bottom, they emerged into what looked like an entirely different world.
A private indoor lounge. Velvet armchairs. A black marble bar. Dim lighting. A piano in the corner. Art on the walls—erotic, dark, expensive.
"You have a bar in your penthouse?" he asked, blinking.
"This is my sanctuary," she said, walking to the bar. "This place doesn't exist to anyone but me. And now you."
"Why show me this?"
She poured a small glass of something amber and potent, then turned to him.
"Because you keep asking questions." She handed him the drink. "Time for some answers."
He took the glass. "Alright. Let's start easy. What is this place?"
"My father's design. He built this floor as a panic room. I turned it into something more… relaxing."
"Your father?"
She leaned against the bar. "He ran the Silver Heights empire. I inherited it after his death. The building is mine."
Jace let that settle.
So she was the owner. The boss. Not just of the penthouse—but of every tenant in this tower.
"I thought you didn't tolerate company."
"I don't," she said softly. "But you're different."
He looked at her, trying to read her face. "Because I'm quiet?"
"No," she said. "Because you remind me of someone I once trusted."
He stepped closer. "Someone you lost?"
"Someone who betrayed me."
Silence.
She downed the rest of her drink in one clean gulp.
Jace placed his glass on the bar and leaned closer. "What did he do?"
"He made me feel safe," she said, voice like glass. "And then used that safety to break me."
"And now you don't let anyone in."
"I let you in."
The air crackled between them.
Her robe shifted again, exposing more thigh. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
He could see the tremble in her fingers. Not fear. Not weakness. Restraint.
"You're not afraid of me, are you?" he asked, voice low.
"No," she whispered. "I'm afraid of what I want to do to you."
His breath caught.
Then—without warning—she stepped forward and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle.
Her mouth met his like a spark igniting gasoline—sudden, fierce, demanding.
And Jace didn't hesitate.
His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her body melted into his, heat pressing through silk and cotton. She tasted like wine and danger.
She bit his bottom lip.
Hard.
He groaned.
She pulled back, eyes dark. "This never happened."
"Sure," he said, breathless. "Let's keep pretending."
She pushed him away and turned, walking quickly back toward the stairs.
But her voice drifted over her shoulder.
"You have one more rule now."
Jace stood there, heart pounding. "Let me guess—no kissing the landlady?"
"No," she said, pausing at the door. "No falling in love with her."
Back in his room, he couldn't breathe.
He lay on the bed, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.
That kiss had flipped something inside him.
She wasn't cold. She was boiling under all that armor.
She wanted him.
But she was terrified of wanting him.
And he had no plans to make this easy for her.
That night, he couldn't sleep again. He got up around 2 a.m., throat dry, mind racing. The hallway was dark. Silent.
He padded quietly to the kitchen.
And stopped cold.
Elara was there.
Leaning against the counter. Robe loose. A glass in her hand.
She didn't flinch when he entered. She just looked at him.
"You keep waking up thirsty," she said.
"Maybe I'm just addicted to midnight encounters."
Her mouth twitched.
She walked toward him slowly, deliberately.
Then stopped inches away.
"Don't mistake this for anything real, Jace."
He stared into her eyes. "You kissed me."
"I wanted to see if I could still feel something," she said. "That's all."
He leaned in. "And did you?"
She didn't answer.
But her lips parted.
Her breath hitched.
And that was all the answer he needed.
He reached out, fingers brushing her jaw. She didn't move.
But she whispered, "Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because if you touch me again, I won't be able to stop."
He smiled. "Then don't."
And this time—she didn't.