Chapter 1

Lena's POV

The dim glow of the bedside lamp spilled across the room in Lakeview Estate, casting faint shadows on the walls. The air carried the faint scent of cedar, mingling with something raw, untamed. My breath caught as Rowan’s hand traced down my waist, his touch slow, deliberate, sending a current through me. The heat of his skin against mine was a quiet storm, one I felt in the quickening of my pulse.

“Stop overthinking, Lena,” he muttered, voice low and rough, his lips brushing just below my ear. The warmth of his breath made my neck tilt slightly, an instinct I couldn’t suppress.

I didn’t reply. My fingers curled into the silk sheets, the fabric cool under my grip. His other hand settled on my hip, pulling me closer with a firm, unyielding pressure. My body responded before my mind could intervene, a faint exhale escaping as his chest pressed against me, solid and unapologetic.

“You can’t hide it,” he said, a trace of a smirk in his tone, as his lips moved along my collarbone, each touch a spark. The heat lingered, building, even as I fought to keep my composure.

“Quiet,” I said, my voice steady but thin, barely audible. Yet my hands contradicted me, sliding up his back, fingertips brushing his skin just enough to draw a low sound from him. His muscles tightened under my touch, a silent acknowledgment of the tension between us.

He let out a dark chuckle, his mouth finding the base of my throat. My pulse thudded there, and I knew he felt it. His tongue grazed the spot, and a sound slipped from me—soft, involuntary. My legs shifted, drawing him closer, eliminating any distance until it was just heat and friction.

“Always so impatient,” he taunted, though his own breath was uneven now. His hand slid lower, skimming the inside of my thigh, the touch light but charged. My hips moved toward him, an unspoken reaction, as a slow ache built deep inside.

“Rowan…” My voice was clipped, controlled, even as it wavered on his name. His gaze flicked to mine for a split second—dark, unreadable, heavy with something I wouldn’t name. Then his lips met mine, hard and insistent, drowning out any thought. The taste of him, sharp and smoky, was overwhelming, and I matched his intensity, my hands threading through his hair.

His grip on my thigh tightened, guiding me as he moved, each shift precise, pushing the tension higher. My breaths came quicker, shallow, each one laced with a sound I couldn’t fully stifle. His name escaped again, quieter this time, as the pressure coiled tighter.

“Again,” he rasped against my ear, voice rough with intent. His hand moved with purpose, finding exactly where I needed it, and I inhaled sharply, my back lifting off the bed. The rhythm, the intensity—it was relentless.

“Rowan,” I said, voice taut, and it seemed to shift something in him. His pace quickened, his hold on me firm, as if he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—let go. Everything narrowed to this moment, to the heat, the friction, the unspoken pull between us.

My fingers pressed into his shoulders as the tension broke, a sharp sound escaping me, restrained but real. My body trembled faintly, every nerve alight, every breath uneven. He followed soon after, a low, rough sound rumbling from him as he stilled, his weight a brief anchor against me before he shifted.

For a moment, we stayed there, silent, the air heavy with what had just passed. His breathing slowed, matching mine, but neither of us spoke. He rolled onto his side, one hand lingering on the sheet rather than on me. I stared at the ceiling, my chest rising and falling with measured calm, even as my mind churned.

I sat up first, pulling the sheet around me, the silk cool against my skin. My movements were deliberate, controlled, as I created distance. “We need to talk,” I said, my voice even, betraying nothing of the undercurrent I felt.

He didn’t move, just watched me with that unreadable gaze, his jaw set. “About?”

“The contract.” I turned my head slightly, meeting his eyes without flinching. “It’s almost over. Two years, as agreed. I’m not renewing.”

A long silence stretched between us. His expression didn’t shift, no flicker of surprise or protest. Just a cold, assessing look, as if I’d commented on the weather. “So that’s your decision,” he said finally, his tone flat, detached, like we were discussing a business clause.

“It is.” I kept my voice steady, my hands folded in my lap, fingers still. “I’ve instructed my lawyer to prepare the termination papers. We end when the term does.”

He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and sat up as well, the space between us a quiet chasm. “Fine. If that’s what you want.” His words were clipped, devoid of warmth or argument, as if the matter was already closed. He ran a hand through his hair, his posture casual, but his eyes didn’t leave mine, sharp and searching despite his indifference.

I didn’t respond, didn’t need to. The air between us thickened, not with anger or regret, but with something unspoken, a tension neither of us would name. I stood, the sheet still draped around me, my bare feet meeting the cool hardwood floor. Each step toward the bathroom was measured, my back straight, my face a mask of calm.

“Lena,” he said, just as I reached the door, his voice low, neutral. I paused, hand on the frame, but didn’t turn. Whatever he might have said next didn’t come, and the silence pressed heavier.

I stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. Leaning against it for a moment, I exhaled, my breath steady, my hands still at my sides. It’s just a contract. Nothing more. The thought was a mantra, one I repeated to myself as I stared at my reflection in the mirror—calm, composed, unshaken. But the quiet weight in my chest, the faint echo of his touch, lingered, a contradiction I wouldn’t acknowledge.