The silence of the Valentine mansion was heavy, expensive, and suffocating. Noah lay sprawled across his silk-sheeted bed, the moonlight cutting a jagged silver path across his pale skin. He was still wearing the sheer mesh wrap from the studio, the fabric damp with a mixture of his own sweat and the ghost of Liam's heat.
He closed his eyes, and the darkness wasn't empty. It was filled with the smell of wet earth and the terrifying, delicious pressure of Liam's hands.
"Liam..." he whispered, the name a jagged prayer.
His hand drifted to his own throat, his fingers curling around the column of his neck just as Liam's had. He squeezed, just enough to make his breath hitch, recreating the moment Liam had pinned him against the glass. He could still feel the phantom vibration of Liam's growl against his skin.
He began to move, his body arching off the mattress as he traced the path Liam's eyes had taken. His hands slid down his chest, his palms grazing his own nipples, hardening them through the mesh, but it wasn't his own touch he felt. He imagined the rough, calloused palms of the Rugby Captain—hands built for violence, now trembling with the effort of not breaking the delicate boy beneath him.
Noah rolled onto his stomach, crawling across the vast expanse of the bed like a predatory animal. He buried his face in a pillow, stifling a moan as his mind replayed the locker room, the rugby pitch, the way Liam had stood over him in the rain.
"Call me useless again," Noah whimpered into the fabric, his hips beginning to grind rhythmically against the mattress. "Tell me I'm a distraction. Use that voice, Liam... make me stay down."
The imagery became more vivid, more carnal. He envisioned Liam losing that final shred of "Presidential" control. He saw Liam's blazer being torn off, those massive, tree-trunk thighs pinning Noah's legs to the floor of the studio. He imagined the weight of the Iron King crushing the breath out of him, those bruised knuckles tangling in his hair, pulling his head back to expose him completely.
Noah's hand slipped beneath the waistband of his leggings. The heat there was a shock, a pulsing, desperate ache that mirrored the darkness in Liam's eyes. He gripped himself, his fingers slick and urgent.
"Fuck," he choked out, his head thrashing against the silk. "Liam, fuck... look at me. Look at what you're doing."
He started to work his hand, a slow, punishing rhythm that matched the cello suite still playing in his head. He was no longer in a mansion; he was back in that dim studio, trapped between the mirror and a man who wanted to destroy him. He imagined Liam's mouth finally crashing down on his—not a soft kiss, but a claim. A brutal, tongue-heavy invasion that tasted of iron and desperation.
He flipped back onto his back, his legs splayed wide, his body glistening under the chandelier. He was a mess of high-end silk and raw, low-end filth. He used his free hand to scratch at his own chest, marking himself where he wanted Liam's teeth to sink in.
"Liam! Tell me you hate me!" Noah cried out, his voice echoing in the empty, opulent room. "Tell me you want to ruin me! I'm right here! Take it! Take all of it!"
The pace of his hand increased, a blurring friction that drove him toward the edge. Every stroke was a memory: the way Liam's bicep had flexed when he pinned him, the way Liam's scent—that mix of cedar, sweat, and cold Ontario air—had filled his lungs. He envisioned Liam's large, rough hand replacing his own, the sheer size of the athlete making Noah feel small, possessed, and utterly conquered.
He was spiraling, the "Identity Denial" of his rival fueling his own ecstasy. He loved the thought of the "Perfect President" being reduced to a beast. He wanted Liam to come inside him and drown the lies, the scholarship, the Valentine name—everything.
"Liam! Liam!"
Noah's back arched so high only his heels and head touched the bed. His breath was coming in ragged, ugly sobs, his vision flickering with bursts of white light. The image of Liam's face—dark, hungry, and shattered by lust—was the last thing he saw before the world dissolved.
With a final, violent thrust of his hips and a guttural scream of Liam's name that tore through the silence of the estate, Noah released. He collapsed back into the silk, his chest heaving, his body twitching as the aftershocks racked his lean frame.
He lay there for a long time, the cooling sweat making him shiver. He looked at his hand, then at the empty room. The luxury felt hollow. The silk felt cold.
He reached out, his fingers trembling as he picked up the stolen photo of Liam from the nightstand. He pressed the cold glass against his flushed cheek, a wicked, tearful smile spreading across his face.
"You're so close, Liam," Noah whispered, his voice spent and hoarse. "You're so, so close to breaking. And when you do... I'll be the only thing left for you to hold onto."
The heavy silence that followed Noah's climax was shattered by a sharp, rhythmic knocking on the double oak doors of his suite. It was a sterile, intrusive sound that didn't belong in the haze of sweat and silk Noah was currently drowning in.
"Master Noah?"
The voice belonged to Elena, the head house maid. She sounded anxious, her voice muffled by the thick wood.
Noah didn't move for a moment. He lay there, his chest still heaving, the photo of Liam clutched against his bare skin. The transition from the feverish heat of his imagination to the cold reality of the Valentine estate was jarring. He felt a wave of irritation rise in his throat.
"What is it, Elena? I'm sleeping," he called out, his voice raspier than usual, thick with the remnants of his release.
"I'm so sorry, Master, but your father is on the line. He's been calling your personal mobile for the last hour and grew... agitated when you didn't pick up. He called the Estate Manager's office instead. He's holding on line two."
The mention of his father acted like a bucket of ice water. Noah's mood didn't just drop; it plummeted. The playful, predatory spark in his eyes died instantly, replaced by a weary, ancient bitterness. He sat up, the silk sheets sliding off his damp body, and reached for his robe.
"Fine," Noah spat. "I'll take it in the study."
He walked through the darkened mansion, his bare feet silent on the marble. The luxury that felt like a playground minutes ago now felt like a tomb. He entered the study, a room filled with leather-bound books that no one ever read, and picked up the sleek, silver handset.
"What do you want?" Noah said, skipping any pretense of a greeting.
"Is that how you speak to the man who pays for every breath you take?"
The voice on the other end was cold, sharp, and carried the effortless authority of a man who owned entire zip codes. It was a voice that sounded exactly like Liam's—but without the hidden warmth, without the soul.
"I was busy," Noah said, his jaw tightening.
"Busy pretending to be a charity case?" his father hissed. The sound of a glass clinking against ice came through the line; he was likely on a terrace in Monaco or a yacht in the Maldives. "I've seen the reports, Noah. This 'scholarship' stunt at St. Jude's. It's an embarrassment. You are a Valentine. Why are you wasting your time at a second-rate academy filled with the children of middle-management sycophants? It's a low school, Noah. It doesn't deserve your name, and it certainly doesn't deserve the time you're wasting there."
Noah let out a short, dry laugh that held no humor. "A low school? It's a top-tier academy in Ontario, Father. Not that you'd know. You haven't stepped foot in Canada in years."
"Don't take that tone with me. I am looking for a school in Switzerland that actually matches your pedigree. You'll be transferred by the end of the month. I won't have the Valentine legacy dragged through the mud of a public-facing institution just because you want to play-act as a starving artist."
"A legacy?" Noah's voice rose, a sharp edge of pain cutting through the anger. "You haven't even been home for three years! You didn't come back for my birthday, you didn't come back when I placed first in the National Ballet Finals—you didn't even come back for Mom's funeral anniversary! Why do you suddenly care where I go to school?"
"I care about the brand, Noah. I care about—"
"You care about your stock prices," Noah interrupted, his hand trembling as he gripped the phone. He looked at his reflection in the dark window of the study. He looked beautiful, expensive, and utterly alone. "Do me a favor. Go back to your drink. Go back to your vacation and your mistresses and your boards. Forget about my life. You've been doing an excellent job of it for the last decade, don't stop now."
"Noah, listen to me—"
"I'm done listening," Noah said. He didn't wait for a response. He slammed the phone back onto the cradle with a violent force that echoed through the silent room.
He stood there for a long time, his breathing shallow. The house felt too big. The air felt too thin. He hated this house. He hated the money. He hated that the only time he felt alive was when he was pretending to be someone else—someone who was 'useless' and 'annoying' and 'distraction' to a cold-eyed rugby captain.
He thought of Liam. Liam, who worked so hard to be 'Perfect' because he believed in the system. Liam, who had everything Noah hated, yet was the only thing Noah wanted.
Noah walked back to his bedroom, but he didn't go back to bed. He went to his dance bag and pulled out his worn-out ballet slippers—the ones he wore at school to look like he couldn't afford new ones. He held them to his chest, sinking onto the floor in the middle of his multi-million dollar room.
"I'll make him love me," Noah whispered into the dark, his voice trembling with a desperate, frantic resolve. "I'll make him love me so much that when this all falls apart, he's the only home I have left."