Three days. Seventy-two hours of deafening radio silence.
I stood at the edge of the ballroom, clutching a flute of champagne I had no intention of drinking, my eyes scanning the sea of tuxedos and designer gowns. My father's annual charity gala was in full swing, a suffocating display of wealth and polite society. The air smelled of expensive perfume and roasted duck, but all I could taste was the bitter memory of Marco's rejection in the parking lot.
What do you want me to do? He had asked.
I want you to look at me, I thought violently. The way you did then.
And then I saw him.
He was standing near the patio doors, holding court with a group of investors. He looked devastating in a black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders like a second skin. His hair was slicked back, silver threads gleaming under the chandelier light, giving him that distinguished, untouchable air that made women half his age stumble over their words. He was the picture of a gentleman: composed, attentive, utterly controlled.
As if feeling the weight of my stare, his gaze lifted. Across the room, our eyes locked.
For a second, the mask slipped. I saw the flash of hunger, the raw, exhausted want that mirrored my own. Then, the steel shutters slammed down. He gave a polite, imperceptible nod—the kind one gives to a business associate's child—and turned his back to me.
The dismissal stung worse than a slap.
I waited until he excused himself, watching as he navigated the crowd toward the quieter wing of the house where my father's private bar was located. I gave him a thirty-second head start before I set my glass down on a passing waiter's tray and followed.
The library was dim, lit only by the low glow of a desk lamp and the moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Marco was pouring a drink at the crystal decanter, his back to the door.
"You can't hide in here all night, Marco," I said, my voice shaking slightly.
He didn't startle. He didn't even turn around. He just paused, the amber liquid swirling in his glass, before taking a slow, deliberate sip. "I'm not hiding, Sofia. I'm taking a moment of reprieve. Something you should be doing instead of following me into dark rooms."
"You've been ignoring my texts."
"I've been doing what is appropriate," he corrected, finally turning to face me. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes a little deeper than usual. "I am your father's best friend. I am a guest in his home. And I am currently trying very hard to remain a man of honor."
I stepped further into the room, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind me. The sound was like a gunshot in the silence. "Is that what you call it? Honor?"
"I call it survival," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
I walked toward him. He didn't retreat, but his body went rigid, a statue carved from tension and restraint. I stopped just inches from him, close enough to smell the sandalwood and scotch that clung to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest.
"Do you regret it?" I whispered. "The other night?"
Marco looked down at me, his jaw clenching. He set the glass down on the side table with a sharp clack, as if he didn't trust his hands to hold it anymore.
"Sofia," he sighed, the sound weary and heavy with conflict. "You are twenty years old. You have a life ahead of you that doesn't involve complications like me. What happened in your father's library… it was a lapse in judgment. It cannot happen again."
"Liar." I reached out, my fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket.
He caught my wrist. His grip was firm, large and warm, stopping me dead. But he didn't push me away. He just held my hand there, suspended against his chest, right over his heart. It was hammering. A frantic, chaotic rhythm that betrayed every calm word he'd just spoken.
"My heart doesn't lie, Marco," I challenged softly.
"Then have mercy on it," he rasped. "Please. Go back to the party."
"Make me."
Something in his eyes fractured. The gentleman vanished, replaced by the man who had pinned me to his desk. He pulled me in, not by the throat this time, but by the waist, his arm sweeping around me like an iron band. He walked me backward until my spine hit the rows of leather-bound books.
"You are playing a dangerous game," he warned, his voice a low growl against my ear. "I am trying to protect you from me."
"I don't want to be protected."
He groaned, a sound of pure defeat, and then his mouth was on my neck.
It wasn't a kiss; it was a devourment. His lips moved over the sensitive skin beneath my ear, hot and wet, making me gasp. My head fell back against the bookshelf, exposing my throat to him, and he took the offering greedily.
"Marco," I whimpered, my hands finding their way into his hair, messing up the perfect style.
He bit down gently on the cord of my neck, soothing the spot immediately with his tongue. His large hands roamed my body, learning the curves of the silk gown I'd worn specifically for him. He traced the line of my hip, his thumbs digging in possessively, before sliding lower to grip my thigh.
He hoisted me up, effortless and strong, until I was seated on the narrow ledge of the bookshelf, my legs wrapping around his waist. The friction was instant, maddening. Through the layers of formal wear, I could feel how hard he was, how much he was struggling to keep this civil.
"You have no idea," he muttered against my skin, his breath hot, "how hard it is to look at you out there… smiling at those boys… when I know what you taste like."
He kissed me then, deep and slow. It was a kiss of ownership, claiming every breath in my lungs. But even in the heat of it, he remained the gentleman. His hands didn't grope; they held me steady, supporting my weight, his thumbs stroking the small of my back in a rhythmic, maddening caress. He was worshipping me, treating my body like a temple he wasn't worthy to enter but couldn't stop praying to.
I arched into him, needing more, my hands fumbling with his bowtie.
That was the breaking point.
Marco froze. He pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes black with dilated pupils. He looked at my hands on his tie, then at my swollen lips, and a look of profound shame crossed his face.
He gently disentangled my legs from his waist and set me back down on the floor. My knees wobbled, but he steadied me, his hands lingering on my arms for a second too long.
"No," he said hoarsely. He stepped back, putting two feet of distance between us. He ran a hand over his face, smoothing his composure back into place. "No. Not here. Not under his roof."
"Marco…"
"Fix your dress, Sofia." His voice was strict now, authoritative, though it lacked any real bite. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted the strap of my gown that had slipped down my shoulder. He smoothed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch agonizingly tender.
"You look… beautiful," he said, the admission torn from him. "Now, please. Before I forget who I am supposed to be. Go."
I stared at him, my body humming with unspent energy, aching for him. But I saw the resolve hardening in his jaw. He wouldn't cross the line again tonight. He was punishing himself just as much as he was denying me.
I straightened my spine, swallowing the rejection. "This isn't over, Marco."
"I know," he whispered, watching me with a tragic hunger as I turned to the door. "That is what I'm afraid of."
I left the library, leaving him alone in the dark with his scotch and his honor, both of which were rapidly running out.