Breathless

The cool air on the terrace curled around us, slipping over bare shoulders and silk, but I barely noticed. The only thing I could feel was Blake—his presence beside me, the warmth of his gaze, the weight of his words lingering in the silence.

"I don't want to pretend anymore," he'd said.

The city sparkled below us, glittering lights against velvet dark. We stood close, our arms nearly touching, and every inch of space between us felt charged. Not with tension. Not anymore. It was something softer and yet more intense—a quiet gravity pulling us toward each other.

I turned to him slowly, unsure of what I would say, but already knowing what I was feeling. My heart thudded beneath my ribs, steady and wild at once. Blake was watching me like he had all night—not as a business partner, not as an obligation, but as a man who truly saw me.

"Then stop pretending," I said, voice barely above a whisper.

A pause.

He stepped closer.

"You're not what I expected, Celine," he murmured. "You never were. You challenge everything I thought I knew."

I swallowed hard. "You confuse everything I thought I wanted."

His hand rose slowly, almost as if asking permission. Fingers brushed a lock of hair behind my ear, and the contact sent a jolt straight through me. My breath hitched.

The space between us vanished.

When Blake kissed me, it wasn't tentative. It was slow, deliberate—like he'd been waiting for this moment and wasn't going to rush it. His lips were warm, sure, and when mine parted for him, something inside me cracked open.

Heat surged through me, tinged with the sharp edge of disbelief. I was kissing Blake Aldridge. My enemy. My husband. And I didn't want to stop.

The kiss deepened. One of his hands slid to the small of my back, drawing me closer. My arms wrapped around his neck, fingers brushing the soft hair at his nape. The world blurred into nothing but sensation—his scent, his warmth, the press of his mouth on mine.

When we finally broke apart, both breathless, we didn't move.

His forehead rested lightly against mine.

"I wasn't sure you'd let me," he said, voice rough.

"I wasn't sure I'd want to," I whispered. "But I did."

His chuckle was low and full of relief. "Then I'll count that as a win."

I shook my head faintly. "This doesn't mean everything's simple now."

"I don't want simple," he said, stepping back only slightly. "I just want real."

And for once, I believed him.

The rest of the night passed in a kind of haze. We returned to the ballroom side by side, fingers brushing occasionally but never fully linking again. Not because we were avoiding each other—but because the moment we'd shared didn't need to be flaunted. It was ours.

Our final round of greetings, thank-yous, and polite nods to donors blurred past me. I was aware of Blake beside me, aware of how his hand would occasionally rest gently at the small of my back. It was subtle, reassuring. An anchor in the storm of attention.

But my thoughts kept circling back to the terrace.

To that kiss.

To the part of me that had responded so easily, so instinctively, like it had always been waiting for him.

By the time we reached the car, the world had quieted. The stars were clearer. Velmora shimmered in the distance, still awake, still watching.

Blake opened the door for me and slid in after. The air inside was laced with perfume and tension.

He didn't speak. Neither did I. But his hand found mine, and this time, I let our fingers twine.

When we arrived at the penthouse, we didn't part ways like we normally did. We stood in the living room, both of us hesitating.

"I should change," I murmured, gesturing toward my gown.

"Of course," he said, voice soft.

But neither of us moved.

He glanced at me again. "Celine..."

"Yes?"

His thumb brushed the back of my hand. "Thank you. For trusting me. Even for just one night."

I nodded. "Goodnight, Blake."

He leaned in again, but this time just brushed a kiss to my cheek before letting me go.

I stood in my room for a long time after changing out of the gown, staring at my reflection again. The lipstick was smudged. My hair tousled. But my eyes—my eyes were alive in a way I hadn't seen in years.

I didn't know what came next. I didn't know what to call what was growing between us. But I knew this wasn't fake anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, I didn't want it to be.