The lights of the city shimmered below, blurred by the light fog pressing against the glass.
Zayden Vale stood at the edge of his floor-to-ceiling window, bare-chested, a white towel slung low around his hips. His raven-black hair dripped onto his shoulders, leaving trails of water that glided down defined muscle, only to vanish into the linen.
In one hand, a cigarette burned slowly, the orange tip flaring every few seconds as he brought it to his lips.
The smoke coiled upward, silent and languid.
His other hand was braced against the glass.
Unmoving. Still.
But inside?
A storm.
His storm-grey eyes, always cold, always unreadable, were now narrowed in thought—focused not on the skyline, but on the memory playing behind his gaze.
Elara Blake.
From the moment she turned to face him in that private room, he'd known.
She wasn't like the rest.
She didn't flatter him. She didn't blush, didn't shrink, didn't play nice.
She snapped.
At him.
And she didn't even flinch when he smiled back.
Zayden exhaled smoke, his jaw tightening.
"Irritating little thing," he muttered under his breath.
He took another drag from the cigarette.
She was supposed to be docile. Pretty, yes, but forgettable. Just another chess piece.
Instead, she had walked in like a queen who didn't even want to play.
When she rolled her eyes at him?
When she said therapy?
When she refused to look impressed?
Zayden's lips twitched.
"She's got teeth."
A single droplet of water slid from his chin and hit the floor.
He turned away from the glass, walking slowly toward the balcony, the soft hum of the city drifting through the slightly open door. The breeze hit his damp skin like a whisper.
He leaned against the stone railing, dragging the cigarette one last time before pressing it out on the metal tray beside him.
Then he stared into the night, still and quiet.
People didn't look him in the eye for more than two seconds.
People didn't talk back.
People didn't bother him.
But she had.
Elara Blake.
She made snide remarks with perfect posture. She wielded sarcasm like silk gloves. And she looked at him like she already saw through him.
And that?
That was dangerous.
But fascinating.
"Who are you, really?" he murmured.
A pause.
He didn't want to admit it—not even to himself—but something about her presence had stuck.
That sharp wit. That quiet fire. That proud little chin tilt.
She didn't smile for him.
And that? That made him want to see it.
Not a polite one. A real one.
Not because he earned it.
But because he made her break her rules.
A fox liked puzzles. And Elara Blake?
She was a locked door with a gold frame.
He flicked his fingers through his wet hair, his voice low, almost amused.
"Looks like this marriage might not be so boring after all."