I didn't sleep. I paced the cool, hard floors of my room, the memory of Alexander's proximity seared into my mind. The fury in his eyes, the heat of his body, the way his gaze had dropped to my mouth… It played on a loop, each repetition sending a fresh, confusing jolt through my system. He had been so cold, so calculated in his dismissal, yet the space between us had been anything but.
The next morning, I avoided the main living areas, staying sequestered in my room until I heard the definitive sound of the private elevator descending, signaling his departure for the office. Only then did I venture out, feeling like a ghost in my own home.
The day stretched before me, long and empty. The penthouse, in the stark light of day, felt more like a prison than ever. My fingers itched for my sketchbook, for the familiar texture of fabric, for anything that felt like me. But the sterile environment seemed to leach the creativity right out of my soul.
Driven by a restless energy, I began to explore the one part of the penthouse I hadn't yet seen. the sprawling, south-facing terrace. It was accessed through a set of floor-to-ceiling glass doors in the living room. I slid one open and stepped outside.
The view was, as expected, breathtaking. But the terrace itself was a tragedy. It was a vast expanse of empty grey stone, punctuated by a few dead planters holding the skeletal remains of what might have once been topiaries. A single, modern but uncomfortable-looking concrete bench sat in one corner. It was as sterile and unloved as the interior. A blank, cold canvas.
An idea, reckless and unbidden, sparked in my mind. It was a need, a compulsion to leave a mark, to fight back against the suffocating perfection of this place.
I didn't ask for permission. I changed into an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt, relics from my past life that felt like a rebellion in this closet of designer clothes. I found a notepad and a pen and started to sketch, right there on the cold stone floor. I drew flowing lines, curves, bursts of imagined color. I envisioned climbing jasmine and vibrant bougainvillea spilling over the edges. I saw comfortable, weathered seating areas, herb gardens, a space that breathed and lived.
I was so absorbed, my fingers smudged with ink, that I didn't hear the elevator arrive. I didn't hear his footsteps until he was standing in the open doorway.
I scrambled to my feet, clutching the notepad to my chest like a shield. He was still in his suit, having clearly just returned. His tie was loosened, and he held a leather portfolio in one hand. His gaze swept over me, taking in my old clothes, my bare feet, the open sketchbook, and the scribbles on the stone around me.
For a moment, he said nothing. The memory of our confrontation last night hung thick in the air between us.
"What is this?" he finally asked, his voice neutral.
"This?" I gestured around the barren space, my chin lifting in a show of defiance I didn't entirely feel. "This is a waste. I was just… brainstorming."
He stepped onto the terrace, his eyes dropping to the sketches at my feet. He studied them for a long, silent moment. I braced for a cutting remark, for a reminder that this was his property, his domain.
"Show me," he said instead.
The request threw me. Slowly, I lowered the notepad, holding it out for him to see. I pointed to a rough sketch. "I thought… jasmine here, to scent the air. And maybe a water feature over there, just something small for sound. It wouldn't take much to make this feel like an actual living space instead of a… a landing pad."
He took the notepad from me, his fingers brushing against mine. A spark, tiny but undeniable, jolted up my arm. His eyes traced the lines of my drawing, his expression unreadable.
"You can do this?" he asked, his gaze still fixed on the page.
"I… yes. I can. I know people. Nurseries, artisans."
He looked from the sketch to the dead terrace, then back to me. The tension from last night was still there, a live wire, but it had transformed. The anger had banked, replaced by something more complex, more dangerous.
"Then do it," he said, his voice low.
He handed the notepad back to me. Our fingers brushed again, and this time, neither of us pulled away. The air between us grew heavy, charged with the unspoken words of last night, with this unexpected moment of… what? Collaboration?
My heart began to pound, a slow, heavy rhythm. His eyes were no longer on the sketchbook, but on me. On the ink smudged on my cheek, on my lips, on the pulse I was sure was visible at the base of my throat. The grey in his eyes had darkened, the silver flecks seeming to glow.
He took a half-step closer. The space between us vanished. I could feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint, clean scent of his skin. The world narrowed to this terrace, to him.
My breath caught. Every cell in my body was screaming, a chaotic chorus of no and yes and this is a terrible idea.
His hand came up, not to touch me, but to hover near my face. His gaze was a question, a silent, burning intensity that stripped away the contract, the rules, the anger.
This was the almost-kiss from last night, offered again without the veil of rage.
My lips parted. I was leaning in, drawn by a force I couldn't name, couldn't fight.
And then, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
The spell shattered.
He blinked, and the shutters came down. The intensity in his eyes was gone, replaced by cool, detached reality. He took a swift step back, putting a professional distance between us.
"The budget," he said, his voice rough around the edges. "Run it by Julian."
And just like that, he turned and walked back inside, leaving me standing alone on the terrace, my body humming with a frustrated, aching need, the ghost of his almost-touch burning on my skin.