Rowan Vale had built empires with discipline. With precision. With his ability to lock the world out and control the chaos within.
But tonight, that discipline cracked.
She walked away, and all he could think about was turning her back around.
His lips parted slightly, breath shallow as the images played uninvited behind his gaze. He imagined her pressed against the cool marble of his shower, his lips on hers, tasting the salt of pool water and something far sweeter. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His mouth tracing her collarbone, lower... lower still.
Her moans—unheard, but echoing in his mind.
He imagined cupping her breasts, thumbs grazing over her peaks, feeling her arch into his palms with abandon. The way her body would shiver beneath his touch, his fingers exploring every soft inch of her with hunger and reverence.
He imagined sliding two fingers inside her.
God.
The thought alone made him shift in his seat.
He could almost hear her whispering his name—not the formal "Mr. Vale" she used in the office, but something breathy, broken, intimate.
Rowan.
And when she would finally open her eyes, look into his—blue and hazy with want—he'd take her mouth again, slow and claiming, like a man starving.
Rowan smirked—really smirked—flirtatiously, absently licking his bottom lip as the image curled through his mind.
"Jesus," Nico muttered beside him, eyebrows raised. "You're actually deranged."
Rowan didn't respond. He just sat there, gaze still locked on the path Lila had taken, the corner of his mouth lifted in that slow, knowing curl.
He wanted her.
But more than that—
He was beginning to need her.
And that?
That was dangerous.
---
Lila's POV:"Her Game, Her Rules"
The silk robe hugged her damp skin as she stepped onto the balcony of the suite, towel still wrapped around her curls. The city below glittered like scattered diamonds, but Lila's smile was for the moon.
There was something about tonight.
Not the music. Not the pool. Not even the expensive glass of rosé Piper had handed her as they returned from the dance floor giggling like teenagers.
It was him.
Rowan Vale.
She hadn't touched him. Hadn't spoken more than a sentence to him since the interview. And yet, she could feel his breath catching from across a room. She could feel the weight of his stare clinging to her skin even as the water kissed it.
And the way he'd smiled.
That sinful, flirtatious smile, like he was imagining things he didn't dare say out loud. Like she had stepped right into his fantasy without permission—and somehow made it hers.
Lila sipped her wine, setting the glass down on the table beside her as she leaned against the railing, the robe slipping slightly off one shoulder.
"I own that man's attention," she whispered to herself, not with arrogance—but with clarity. "And he knows it."
She wasn't just beautiful.
She was deliberate.
He wanted her?
Let him.
Let him crave with silence, while she smiled in meetings and passed him in the hallway with perfume that lingered just long enough to haunt him.
Let him fantasize.
She had no intention of giving in just yet.
She didn't want his body.
She wanted his control.
And tonight, as she slipped into bed with the city humming below her, Lila Penrose slept like a queen.
Because power was never loud.
It was quiet.
Seductive.
And always—always—in heels.
---
Monday came with a silver-gray sky and the sort of hush that felt like the world was holding its breath.
Lila Penrose stepped into Vale Investments wearing an all-black ensemble so sharp it could cut diamonds. Her blazer was cinched at the waist, the white silk blouse beneath left unbuttoned just low enough to hint at her collarbone and the rise of her cleavage. A single gold pendant rested just above the dip. Her hair, now warm blonde and loosely curled, caught the morning light as she moved.
Her heels tapped down the corridor—steady, self-assured.
Not rushed.
Not nervous.
This was her game.
And when she stepped into the boardroom, her presence was felt before she even spoke. Conversations dipped. Eyes shifted.
And Rowan?
Rowan didn't look up right away.
But he felt her. The way her perfume wrapped around his senses—notes of rosewood and subtle vanilla. His jaw tensed. His fingers curled slightly around his pen, as if grounding himself.
When he did look up, their eyes met.
Her expression was calm. Professional.
But her eyes?
Oh, her eyes danced—a shade of aqua that carried a storm, one he wasn't sure he could outswim anymore.
She took her seat without a word. Legs crossed. Fingers poised over a notepad she didn't really need. Her gaze occasionally flicked to the screen at the front of the room, then—unapologetically—back to him.
She didn't smile.
But she didn't have to.
She was the flame, and he was the man pretending he didn't want to burn.
Rowan cleared his throat and began the presentation, voice even, tone sharp. But every sentence he delivered was laced with static.
He didn't miss the slight tilt of her head.
The way she'd trace the rim of her pen cap with her thumb.
The subtle glance from under her lashes.
She said nothing.
But every motion dared him to think—what if I lose my grip?
And as the meeting went on, the numbers blurred in his periphery.
Because it wasn't the figures on the slides that haunted him.
It was the woman sitting across the table… commanding him without ever saying his name.
---
The boardroom emptied like a tide pulling back.
Chairs scraped.
Papers rustled.
Footsteps faded down the corridor.
But Lila didn't move.
She remained seated, her hands calmly folding the notepad into her black leather portfolio. The moment was hers to savor. Not because she had embarrassed him—no. Lila wasn't reckless. She didn't play to humiliate.
She played to control.
And today, she had Rowan Vale wrapped around a silence.
He hadn't stumbled over his words. Hadn't lost focus or broken routine. But his body had betrayed him.
She saw it.
The tightness in his jaw.
The way his knuckles paled around the pen.
The brief flare of something unspoken in his eyes when their gazes clashed—like he was at war with a version of himself she had awakened.
And that was enough.
She stood finally, adjusting the lapel of her blazer, and walked with measured grace out of the room. The hallway air felt cooler—sharper, somehow. Or maybe it was the aftershock of tension that still lingered in her own pulse.
Her heels echoed confidently as she passed a few colleagues. One glanced at her and offered a faint nod. Another—a young assistant—whispered something under his breath when she passed.
She didn't need to hear it.
She knew what they were thinking.
She was the woman who walked into a room full of men in suits and made them forget their own presentations.
Lila paused by the mirrored wall near the elevator, subtly checking her reflection. Not out of vanity—out of precision.
Her lipstick, still matte.
Her blouse, still perfect.
Her composure, still intact.
But her eyes?
They were smiling.
She pressed the elevator button, and as the doors opened, she whispered to herself under her breath,
> "Let him chase. I'm not done watching him squirm."
And with that, she stepped in—cool, collected, and utterly unforgettable.
---
#Best Friend Breakdown#
Piper leaned against the bakery counter, scrolling through her phone with a half-eaten croissant in hand when Lila walked in—heels in one hand, blazer folded over her arm, and that unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.
"Okay, ma'am," Piper said, without even looking up. "Whatever you just did… you better sit down and spill."
Lila smirked, dropping onto the barstool beside her and stealing a sip of Piper's iced coffee.
"He stared," she said simply.
Piper blinked. "That's it?"
"No." Lila bit her lip, finally letting the smirk widen. "He lingered."
That made Piper set her croissant down.
"Rowan Vale? The God of Stone-Cut Suits and Emotional Detachment? Lingering?"
Lila gave her a nonchalant shrug, eyes glittering. "He's trying not to melt. I can feel it."
Piper grinned. "Please tell me you wore something that made the men in that boardroom re-evaluate their marriages."
"Black blazer, white silk blouse… a little peek of the goods, tasteful of course," Lila said, twirling a finger toward her chest. "And just enough confidence to set the room on fire."
Piper howled. "You're my Roman Empire."
They both laughed, and for a moment, the whole game disappeared into the safety of friendship—where strategy turned to joy, and seduction turned to celebration.
"You gonna let him catch you?" Piper asked after a beat.
Lila paused, then leaned in, eyes dreamy but fierce.
"I'm not the one running."
Piper looked at her like she was watching a movie unfold in real time. "This man's going to combust."
Lila stretched, letting out a soft sigh. "Let him. I've got time."
The city stretched wide below Rowan Vale's office, but he didn't see any of it.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, hands in his pockets, jaw locked. The skyline glittered in reflection on the glass—but behind it, his thoughts were a storm.
What is she doing to me?
Lila Penrose.
She hadn't even spoken to him today—not beyond the standard boardroom politeness. And yet, he could still feel her perfume in the air. He could still see the slow blink of her lashes. The curve of her lips. The poise in her posture. The confidence in her stride.
Her presence was a silence that screamed.
He didn't lose control. Not outwardly. Not publicly. But internally?
His thoughts had scattered like loose papers in wind.
That blouse… the soft gleam of skin beneath her collar. The way she didn't even look at him half the time—but when she did?
It was like she knew exactly what she was doing.
And she did.
He wasn't naive.
Rowan turned from the window and ran a hand through his dark hair, eyes narrowing.
He wasn't the type to fall prey to mind games. Women had tried. Some had come close. But they all wanted something—money, status, power.
Lila didn't want anything.
She didn't need to seduce him to climb. She had her job. She was intelligent, sharp. He respected her skill. Feared it, even.
And that was the problem.
He wanted her, not despite that power—but because of it.
And it rattled him.
He walked back to his desk, loosened his tie, then sat—only to immediately lean forward, elbows on his knees, palms pressed together.
Focus, Rowan.
But her smile lingered.
Her soft walk echoed.
Her scent clung to the air.
And the moment she had left that boardroom—untouchable, devastating—he knew something had shifted.
He was no longer the hunter.
And Lila Penrose?
She was far more than prey.
She was the game he couldn't stop playing.
---
#Silk Robes and Silent Victories#
Lila's apartment hummed with low jazz, the kind that curved through rooms like a whisper. She stood at her vanity, unclasping the last of her earrings as city lights blinked beyond her window.
Her reflection greeted her with a knowing smile.
The day had gone according to plan—not just professionally, but personally. And in this chapter of her life, both mattered.
She slipped into a maroon silk robe, tied loosely around her waist, then poured herself a glass of wine—red, bold, like the shade she'd worn on her lips earlier.
Command the room, Piper had said once.
But Lila had gone further.
She didn't just command.
She haunted.
That boardroom was still hers—even now, hours later. She could still feel the heat in Rowan Vale's glance, the pause in his breath, the twitch of tension in his fingers when he turned a page.
She'd spoken with grace. Dressed with intention. And left him aching without ever touching him.
Lila curled onto the velvet sofa, tucking her legs beneath her, sipping her wine as if it were an extension of her mood.
What next?
She wasn't cruel. She wasn't careless.
But she was a woman who knew her value—and how to use it.
And if Rowan Vale was the man the world said he was, he'd come prepared.
Or not at all.
Her phone buzzed beside her. A message from Piper:
> "Don't tell me you're home already. The city still needs to recover from you."
Lila laughed, softly, resting her head back.
"Let it burn," she whispered, glass raised to the sky.
She hadn't come to play it safe.
She'd come to make history.
---
#The Devil Wears Expensive Intentions#
Lila was halfway through her wine and a slow groove in the playlist when the intercom buzzed.
She blinked.
No one buzzed this late—except Piper, and Piper texted first.
She set the glass down, walked barefoot across the hardwood floor, and pressed the speaker.
"Yes?"
"Evening, Ms. Penrose," a smooth voice replied, soaked in velvet and danger. "Hope I'm not intruding."
Her stomach dropped, then twisted. Not with fear. With suspicion.
Nico Hart.
She knew that voice. Charismatic, careless, coated in charm.
She pressed the button again. "How did you get my address?"
"I'm rich, reckless, and annoyingly resourceful," he replied. "May I come up?"
There was a pause. She considered saying no.
But… what was life without a little chaos?
The door buzzed open.
When she opened her apartment door minutes later, he stood there like a magazine cover. Black turtleneck. Dark jeans. A single silver ring. That signature glint in his hazel eyes like he already knew the effect he had.
"Impressive," he said, stepping inside as if invited. "Silk, wine, jazz. I must've walked into a very well-written scene."
"You walked into a boundary," Lila said dryly, crossing her arms. "Start talking."
Nico held up his hands. "Peace offering," he said, revealing a bottle of aged red from behind his back. "And curiosity."
"Curiosity?"
"Rowan." He smiled as if the name tasted expensive. "You're driving him mad. And I love watching the man crumble."
Lila raised a brow. "So you came here to… gossip?"
"To warn you." He stepped closer, voice lowering. "Careful, Penrose. Rowan's not just any man. He doesn't lose, and when he plays—it's with fire."
She didn't flinch. "I don't burn easy."
Nico's smile widened. "That's what he's afraid of."
Their eyes locked—a spark, a warning, a dare.
Then Lila turned, walking back toward her wine.
"Have a drink, Nico. But don't mistake me for your game."
Behind her, he chuckled.
"Oh, darling," he murmured, pouring himself a glass, "I wouldn't dream of it."
---
Velvet Knives and Wine-Stained Games
The wine slid into Nico's glass with a deep red swirl, catching the light like blood in crystal. He lifted it to his lips and leaned against the kitchen island, eyes fixed on Lila.
"You know," he said, "Rowan thinks he's in control."
She didn't respond right away—just let the music speak for her. Low jazz, sultry saxophone notes curving through the room like her own presence.
She turned slowly, arms crossed, a brow raised. "Isn't he?"
Nico laughed softly. "Maybe. Until you walk in. Then his jaw sets, his breathing shifts, and his IQ drops about ten points."
"I haven't done anything," she said coolly.
"Exactly," Nico murmured, admiring the sharp edge of her silence. "And that's what terrifies him."
He took another sip, then set the glass down. "You know, for a woman who claims she's not playing games, you're wearing red like war paint and walking like temptation."
"Not everything I wear is about a man," she said. "Sometimes I just like how power fits me."
He smiled, tongue running over his teeth. "Touché."
Lila walked toward the window, the hem of her robe fluttering like a secret. "Why are you really here, Nico?"
There was a pause. A long one. And then—
"I want to know what you are," he said, voice suddenly void of mockery. "Because Rowan's world—it doesn't shake. But you… you cracked it like glass."
She turned, meeting his gaze. "And you're here to study the shatter?"
"No." He stepped forward, slow. "I'm here to witness it. Maybe even warn you."
"Of Rowan?"
"Of what happens when someone like him stops holding back."
Their eyes clashed in a stare too quiet for comfort.
Then she smirked. "Are you scared for me, Nico?"
"I don't do scared," he said. "But I do respect a storm before it hits."
Lila held his gaze. "Tell Rowan to bring an umbrella."
Nico gave her a slow, appreciative grin. "Oh, darling... you are the rain."
---
Nico leaned on the counter again, but the smirk had softened. Less tease, more study.
"You're not what I expected," he said, watching her like he'd forgotten to blink. "When I first saw you, I thought you were just another gorgeous face trying to climb a golden ladder."
"And now?" she asked, curious despite herself.
He hesitated.
"You walk like someone who's already at the top," he said. "But you look like you've lived through falling."
Lila stilled.
The jazz played on. Her glass hovered near her lips. Her breath caught—not in flattery, but in recognition.
"You don't know me," she said quietly.
"No," Nico replied. "But I know eyes that don't flinch. And smiles that hide exhaustion."
Lila's gaze dropped for a beat. Then rose—clearer, sharper.
"I've worked too hard to be mistaken for soft."
He tilted his head. "Soft isn't weak."
"I don't have the luxury of finding out."
Nico walked toward her now. Not close enough to invade, but close enough to feel like truth.
"You don't trust easily."
"Should I?"
"No," he said. "But it's exhausting, isn't it? Being the mystery and the myth at the same time."
That cracked something.
Not loudly.
But enough.
Her shoulders dropped, just slightly. She exhaled—long, slow.
He watched her take a sip of her wine, then whisper—almost to herself:
"Some days I don't know who I'm performing for anymore."
Silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Honest.
Then Nico picked up his coat from the armrest.
"No performance tonight," he said softly. "I'll see myself out."
At the door, he looked back one last time.
"You shook a man who doesn't shake. That's not a warning, Penrose. That's respect."
He left without another word.
And Lila stood still, the air around her thick with unsaid things.
---