The elevator doors opened with a whisper, revealing the top floor of Viera Towers—Rafael's penthouse.
It didn't look like a home.
It looked like a trap disguised as luxury.
Aaria stepped inside slowly, taking in the impossible space: floor-to-ceiling windows that swallowed the skyline, marble floors so polished they mirrored her every hesitation, and shadows that clung to corners like secrets.
Everything was dark. Masculine. Controlled.
Except one room.
The door was already open.
Cream walls. Soft light. A grand canopy bed wrapped in delicate linen and bookshelves stacked with literature she'd once mentioned only once in passing. A vase of lilac—her favorite flower—stood beside the window.
Her breath caught.
"You've been planning this," she whispered.
Rafael stepped in behind her. "I've been preparing."
"For what?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached past her and gently closed the door behind them. The soft click of it made her pulse spike.
"You shouldn't be alone tonight," he said simply.
"I'm not fragile."
"No," Rafael said. "You're dangerous. And beautiful. And damaged in all the places I want to trace with my mouth."
Her heart hammered.
"You built this room… for me?"
"I designed every inch of this place before I met you," he said, stepping closer. "But now I understand… it was always waiting for you."
She turned away from him, overwhelmed. "I don't know what this is. Us. This... thing between us."
Rafael's voice dropped to a low hum. "It's not 'us', Aaria. It's mine. And it started the second you looked me in the eyes like you weren't afraid."
She should have told him to stop.
She didn't.
Later that night, she stood by the window in his black button-down shirt, barefoot and disarmed, watching the storm roll across the city like a warning.
She felt him before she heard him.
His arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her into his chest.
"You're safe," he murmured. "No one touches you here. Not even memories."
"I can't give you what you want," she whispered.
"I never asked."
"But you'll take it anyway?"
He turned her around, eyes dark.
"Yes."
Then his lips were on hers again—harder, slower this time. Like he wasn't kissing her lips, but her pain. Her silence. Her shattered pieces.
His hands explored her like she was territory to be claimed. His touch deliberate, possessive, a language of need and command.
And when he lifted her onto the edge of the bed, his voice was a warning.
"From this moment on, Aaria… there is no going back."
"I don't want to."
That night, she didn't just sleep in his bed.
She belonged to it.