I always told myself I could handle this.
That I could walk into his world—his penthouse, his hands, his bed—and leave everything behind on command. No love. No strings. No future. Just heat, breath, and skin against skin until the sun threatened to expose the lie.
But tonight, something in me was already breaking before I even touched the elevator button.
The private lift to Alexander Knight's penthouse opened with its usual hush, like even the machinery feared him. The scent of rich leather, expensive whiskey, and the faint trace of his cologne hit me the second the doors slid open. My pulse stuttered.
He was already there, of course. Standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows like he owned the skyline. One hand in his pocket. Jacket off. Black shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Casual in a way only powerful men could be.
He didn't look at me at first. He never rushed. He let my presence soak into the air like he'd summoned it.
"Close the door," he said.
Not a greeting. Not a question. Just command.
I did it. Because I always did.
The click of the door had barely faded before his gaze dragged over me—slow, unapologetic, and hot enough to make me feel like I was already undressed. I wore a deep burgundy slip dress, soft and thin, chosen with him in mind. I hated that he could read that in one look.
"You're late," he murmured.
I wet my lips. "By ten minutes."
"That's late to me."
I could've snapped back. I should've. Instead, I stood still when he stepped toward me, each stride unhurried but predatory, like he knew damn well I wasn't going to run.
His fingers brushed my jaw first. A tease of contact. Then his thumb traced the line of my lower lip, slow enough to make my blood heat.
"You wore this for me," he said. Not a question.
"And if I did?"
His mouth curved—somewhere between arrogance and hunger. "Then you know exactly what's going to happen to it."
I didn't get the chance to reply.
He kissed me the way he always did when he didn't want to think—hard, deep, taking. His lips crushed against mine, swallowing any pretense of restraint. My back hit the wall before I even registered he'd moved me.
His hand slid into my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp, and his tongue traced that sound like he owned it.
I should've pulled away. I should've remembered this was the last time. I'd told myself that in the mirror before leaving my apartment. No more pretending this was just sex. No more pretending I never wanted more.
But the second his mouth found mine, every rule I'd built went up in flames.
His other hand gripped my waist, fingers pressing possessively through the thin fabric. He pinned me there like he planned to devour me against the wall. His body was hard and hot against mine, and I arched into him—of course I did—because he knew exactly how to make me forget my name.
"Lift your arms," he said against my mouth.
I obeyed before the words fully registered. His hands skimmed up my sides, slow, teasing, dragging the hem of my dress with them. When it cleared my chest, he pulled it over my head and tossed it aside like it offended him.
I stood there in nothing but lace underwear and heels, and his eyes darkened, greedy and merciless.
"Turn around."
The way he said it made my thighs clench. I pressed my palms to the wall and felt his breath on the back of my neck a second later. His hands slid over my hips, thumbs tracing the dip of my waist like he was memorizing me.
I closed my eyes when he kissed the spot just beneath my ear. Slow. Purposeful. The kind of kiss that made my spine tingle.
"You come to me knowing exactly what I'll do to you," he murmured.
I hated that my voice shook. "And you always do it."
He chuckled low, dark. "Not yet."
He pulled me back from the wall, turning me to face him again. His eyes—ice and storm—met mine like he was daring me to say no. But I never had. Not once.
His fingers hooked into the waist of my panties and dragged them down slowly, deliberately, letting them fall to the floor. My breath caught, but his gaze never dipped. He watched my face, my reaction, like that was his real obsession.
He pressed me back against the edge of his glass table, and the cool surface kissed bare skin. His mouth was on me again, claiming, devouring, drawing sounds from my throat I couldn't swallow back.
My hands gripped his shoulders, then his shirt, then his hair. Every nerve in my body was tuned to him, desperate and alive and ruined.
And something in me whispered: This is the last time you'll ever feel him like this.
Maybe that was why I let myself sink into it harder. Why I didn't try to protect my heart this time. Why I whispered his name like it meant something.
When he finally pulled back, breath harsh, pupils blown wide, I saw something flicker there—something human, something dangerous.
That was the moment I knew I had to leave.
Not tomorrow.
Not after another night like this.
Now.
I swallowed the tremor in my voice. "I'm done after tonight."
His expression didn't change at first. Then it sharpened. "No, you're not."
I forced myself to meet his eyes. "I'm walking away, Alexander."
His jaw flexed. His hand curled around my wrist—not to hurt, but to stop me from taking another step. His touch was hot, demanding, familiar.
But this time, I didn't melt.
I pulled my wrist free, gathered my dress from the floor, and turned my back on him.
I felt his gaze slice across my spine as I walked—half fury, half disbelief.
I didn't look back.
Not when the elevator doors closed.
Not when the silence swallowed me whole.
Because if I had… I would've stayed.
***
I walked out.
I actually fucking walked out.
The sound of the door closing behind me was softer than I expected — a click, almost delicate, but it hit like a gunshot. For a second, I stood there in the hallway, fingers still trembling from the feel of him on my skin.
He didn't follow.
Of course he didn't. Alexander Knight never chased anyone.
I could almost picture him behind that door — still, silent, furious in that cold way of his that didn't need shouting to feel like a threat. He'd probably run a hand over his jaw, slow and deliberate, the way he did when he was holding something dangerous inside. Anger. Disbelief. Control. All of it simmering beneath that perfect composure.
He wouldn't call after me. He wouldn't try to stop me. Alexander didn't beg. He calculated.
And I'd just done the one thing he didn't account for.
I'd said no.
I'd said goodbye.
My heartbeat wouldn't slow. It felt reckless and right and terrifying all at once. I'd left him before — stormed out, thrown words I didn't mean, always knowing he'd pull me back somehow. A text. A command. A look that undid me.
But this time was different.
There'd been something in his eyes when I said it — that quiet, lethal kind of stillness that meant he was already deciding how to take back what I'd just taken from him.
I'd seen that look before. In meetings. In boardrooms. In bed.
And I knew exactly what it meant.
He was already planning my return.
The hallway blurred around me as I walked faster, heels sharp against marble. Every nerve in my body still felt wired to him. The taste of him on my lips. The way his hand had closed around my wrist earlier — not rough, but certain. Possessive. Like he was reminding me who set the terms between us.
But tonight I had. For once, I had.
I'd seen the way his reflection looked in that window — untouchable, sharp, and controlled — while my own face in the glass behind him was flushed and breaking. He didn't even realize I was the one bleeding under his rules.
He thought this was about power. About control. About keeping things exactly where he wanted them.
He didn't understand that control was the reason I was suffocating.
He'd tell himself he let me walk out. That it was his choice. He'd probably even pour himself a drink, not touch it, then send a message to one of his men — Make sure she gets home. No contact. No warmth. Just surveillance disguised as concern.
Because that's who Alexander was — he didn't love, he monitored.
He didn't chase. He hunted.
And I was done being something to keep track of.
Still, as I stepped into the night air, my chest ached in that traitorous way that made me want to turn back. I could almost feel his presence even from here — that sharp, electric energy that clung to everything he touched.
He'd be standing at that window, watching the city, probably convincing himself he wasn't thinking about me. But I knew better.
He'd be thinking about control. About order. About what to do with the woman who dared to disobey him.
And he'd come for me.
Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But Alexander Knight didn't lose what he considered his.
He'd find me.
And when he did, I wasn't sure if I wanted to run — or see if I could finally make the man who never chases… lose his composure for me.
Because the truth was cruel and simple:I'd walked away from him —but I hadn't escaped.
Not yet.