The morning after their shared night left Ethan floating in a fog of disbelief and raw satisfaction. Vanessa was already up when he woke, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, her hair swept back, lips crimson like war paint. She moved through her world like a queen—powerful, untouchable.
But something had changed between them. The way her fingers grazed his shoulder as she passed. The lingering glances. The silence that spoke volumes.
"Don't get too comfortable," she said without turning. "That was one night. I don't do repeats."
Her words stung, though her voice lacked venom. Ethan managed a crooked smile.
"And yet you're still making me breakfast?"
"Don't confuse nourishment with affection."
Ethan laughed under his breath. "You always talk like you're reading from a script."
Vanessa's head tilted, amused. "Do I?"
"Yeah. Like you've lived a thousand lives already."
She turned then, arms folded. "Maybe I have. Maybe I've just learned the cost of attachment."
"And what's that?"
"Vulnerability. Weakness. Regret."
The tension thickened, and for the first time, Ethan realized she wasn't just shielding herself behind luxury and dominance—she was hiding pain. Deep, layered pain.
He stood, shirtless and barefoot, and walked toward her.
"You're not made of stone, Vanessa. You just pretend to be."
"I pretend nothing," she snapped—but her eyes shimmered with something he hadn't seen before: fear.
He reached out, brushing his fingers against her cheek.
"You let me in last night."
"That was lust, Ethan."
"No," he said quietly. "It was more than that. I felt it. You did too."
Vanessa's lips parted, as if to argue, but no sound came.
---
That afternoon, she took him to her private studio—a room tucked behind the walk-in closet, filled with sketchbooks, mannequins, and bolts of rare fabric.
"This is where I create," she said softly. "Where I control the one thing no one can take from me—beauty."
Ethan picked up a design: a midnight blue gown with gold embroidery.
"You made this?"
She nodded. "For a woman who didn't know she deserved to be worshipped."
He looked at her. "Do you think you deserve that?"
Vanessa turned away.
"You ask too many questions."
"Maybe no one else does."
She paused… then said, "Strip again."
Ethan blinked. "Here?"
"I want to draw you. As you are. Vulnerable. Real."
There was something reverent in her voice this time—not lust, not command. Something close to awe.
Ethan unbuttoned his shirt slowly. She picked up her pencil and sketchpad, her eyes focused, her lips parted slightly in concentration.
He stood still, exposed, letting her see all of him.
And in return, she let him see her. The cracks. The soft edges. The woman beneath the armor.
---
When she finished, she walked to him, her sketchpad still in her hand.
"This isn't about just sex," she said, voice low. "It never was."
"I know."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"Then don't."
She hesitated… then leaned in, pressing her forehead to his.
"I don't know how to stop."