[Scene 1: Hotel Bar]
She hadn't seen him in almost a year.
Not since the last client relationship meeting, where her hands trembled under the table.
Not since she caught him watching her like he wanted to devour her. All the while pretending he hadn't.
Not since she intentionally put space between them, avoiding him at casual work events, keeping quiet when he joined a conversation.
Making herself blend into the background, small enough to disappear. Because if she didn't, she wasn't sure she'd survive the tension.
And now he was here.
Julian.
He stood alone at the far end of the hotel bar, dressed like he always was: sharp black suit, white shirt open just enough to be dangerous. Cuff links. No tie.
And then the only detail that made him feel real…A black and white pair of sneakers.
The glass of whisky in his hand hadn't moved in ten minutes.
But his eyes?
She knew he'd felt her.
Of course he had. That was always the problem with Julian—he noticed…
When no one else did.
When her husband didn't.
When her boss didn't.
When she tried her best to disappear into work and efficiency and a clean, convenient life.
She wasn't supposed to want this.
Wasn't supposed to feel this, this high, sharp pull under her ribs, like a leash snapping tight inside her chest.
He turned.
And when his eyes found hers, it wasn't a look.
It was a claim.
She felt it before she saw it.
Those gray eyes watching her as she walked across the bar, like heat slipping under her skin. Like being recognized in a crowd that stood still… and her body, naked.
He moved toward her slowly. Casually.
As if he hadn't been locked on her like a goddamn predator.
Lena swallowed and looked down at her wine glass, fingers tightening around the stem as he approached. She closed her eyes briefly and exhaled.
She told herself it was fine.
It was a work conference.
A coincidence.
A moment that meant nothing.
Except it did.
Her body betrayed her.
Jaw clenched.
Heat between her thighs.
Muscles tight with anticipation.
Hunger.
Julian's gaze didn't ask for permission.
It never had.
And even after twelve months and two states of distance, it still held her like it used to.
Still pinned her in place.
Still made her obedient without a word.
Still made her ache to kneel at his feet. Begging.
She remembered what he said, the last time.
Late. Quiet. Alone in a hotel bar.
His voice had been low. Unshakable.
"You want to be controlled. You just haven't let anyone earn it yet."
He hadn't touched her.
Hadn't moved closer.
He just left her with that sentence and a look that made her drip between her thighs. Her breath had quickened. Her body had begged for more.
She spent the next several weeks avoiding him. Her marriage, and her sanity, depended on it.
It probably still did.
Lena looked up again.
Julian was still watching her as he made his way across the room.
Unblinking.
She looked down into her wine glass, then to the floor, then toward the hallway behind her like someone had just called her name.
She didn't know why. Only that her heart was already pounding out the truth she had buried for too long.
He knows what I am.
[Scene 2: Twelve Floors with Julian]
You left for a reason.
He stopped nothing.
He never touched you.
You were the one who wanted it.
You still do.
She didn't mean to run into him again.
Not in the elevator.
Not alone.
Not with his jacket slung over his shoulder, button-down shirt half tucked, sleeves rolled to the forearms, and collar loosened.
And certainly not with the doors sliding shut behind her before she could pretend she didn't see him.
Silence.
Just the two of them.
Twelve floors.
A heartbeat between them.
He didn't speak. Didn't even look at her at first. But the silence felt like a hand on her throat.
Then his voice. Low and measured:
"You ran."
Not a question. Not surprised.
She swallowed. Tried to sound casual.
"For the conference…"
"Liar," he said, soft and dangerous.
He stepped closer.
Then he turned to fully face her, the space between them charged and intentional.
His eyes were calm, but predatory.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice what you are just because you left?"
His tone didn't rise, but it pinned her where she stood.
She pressed herself against the elevator wall, unsure if she wanted to escape or melt into it.
"You don't know anything about me," she said quietly, but her voice didn't hold weight.
He took another step . Just enough.
"I know you wore your ring tonight, but you keep twisting it like it burns," he said, eyes flicking briefly to her hand.
"I know your husband doesn't make you beg."
"And I know you're not wearing panties."
Her pulse stuttered.
Her thighs pressed together instinctively, like she could protect herself from what she already knew:
Her control didn't exist around him. Not really.
"You don't belong to him," he murmured, gaze locked to hers. "Not when you look at me like that."
She didn't breathe.
Couldn't.
The elevator dinged.
His floor.
He stepped out. Turned. Held the door with one hand, watching her.
Then he said it like a truth she hadn't earned yet:
"You've always been mine, Lena. You just haven't said it yet."
And then the doors closed.
She stood there, breathless. Soaked through her dress. Mouth open, but no sound.
She didn't sleep that night.
She touched herself.
Wet. Shaking.
So close to the edge—but she didn't let go.
She didn't let herself.
She was already halfway his.
He's always known what I am.