lu

“it wasn’t an idea,” steve shot back, wiping his own sweaty palms on his jeans. “it was a suggestion.” his blue t-shirt was turning darker in patches, sticking to his chest. “and i said: maybe the car is colder because we parked it under a tree.”

“do you know what maybe means?” he added.

“yeah genius, but didn’t you think about something called sun that moves?” you replied.

“okay okay, eat your ice cream. i don’t want this baby getting sticky and covered with vanilla.” he gave up, knowing he’d never win an argument with you.

“it’s hot and we’re eating ice cream, steve. i can’t promise anything,” you shrugged.

his eyebrows stayed furrowed, eyes locked on every little movement you made. he thought you didn’t notice, but he was already clutching a wad of napkins, ready to wipe away any drip before it could touch the leather.

you loved pissing him off. two years of friendship and you still never got tired of it. he was funnier when he got grumpy, and he was used to it. he’d act annoyed for a minute, then be laughing at your dumb jokes three minutes later.

this summer you’d both decided to find jobs. you and robin teased him endlessly about not needing the money, but he insisted. he wanted to prove he could do it without leaning on his parents. robin had already landed something at the supermarket but steve hated the uniform and the pay, so the two of you kept applying to new places every monday like clockwork.

somehow you’d ended up at the ice cream shop, and now you had to deal with steve’s neat-freak ass and his obsession with keeping his car extremely clean.

“relax your annoying ass. it’s not my fault your big mouth devoured your cone a second after we got out of the mall.”

“i’m not gonna say anything else, but i swear if you mess it up, you’re cleaning it,” he said, running a hand through his damp hair. wet brown strands clung to his forehead.

“i’m not cleaning anything. especially not so you can keep showing off to your failed dates. it gives me secondhand embarrassment,” you laughed.

“one: those are not failed dates. and two, you only say that because you’re clearly jealous.”

“oh my god, you definitely have heatstroke. you’re literally talking nonsense now,” you said, bursting into laughter.

“i’m not making anything up. you only say that when you don’t have an argument against me and i’m just noticing a pattern.”

your smile faded a little. he had never gone there before, even when you teased him constantly. the words made your stomach flip with a nervousness you didn’t want to name.

of course he was your friend. that was the title you gave everyone else. but you spent every day together, crashed at each other’s houses, shared everything. nothing suspicious.

still, when he said it, your brain short-circuited. the silence that followed stretched on for a bit too long.

you cleared your throat and changed the subject, desperate to save your own sanity. you didn’t notice the way he was staring at you the whole time, waiting for a real answer.

“stop talking and listen,” you said after an awkward pause. “we have to check this new shop near the park. molly just told me they’re hiring. i don’t know what for but—” you kept talking, dragging the little plastic spoon through the softening ice cream and licking it slowly.

steve wasn’t listening anymore.

his mouth was still slightly open, shiny and pink from the flavor he’d finished earlier. you felt a cool shiver run down your spine despite the suffocating heat. you cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away before your thoughts wandered somewhere they shouldn’t. he was staring straight at your lips.

you kept avoiding his eyes, trying to focus on talking, until the melted cream started running down your arm. “oh fuck,” drops of vanilla slid onto your thighs. you reacted fast, licking every streak from your skin, then opening your mouth to catch the falling scoop.

your tongue passed over your sticky fingers, cleaning them, before finally circling your cold, sweet lips.

when you glanced up, steve wasn’t complaining about the mess. his eyes were fixed on you.

he turned his head sharply, tapping the steering wheel, then shifted awkwardly and looked out the window.

the silence stretched too long, again.

“what are you getting weird for?” you asked, finishing the last bite of the cone.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, staring straight ahead.

“you know what i mean. why are you suddenly quiet and not yelling at me for almost ruining your car?”

“it doesn’t matter. can we go?” he reached for the keys, but you stopped him. your hand, still a little sticky, wrapped softly around his wrist. “why won’t you even look at me idiot? i’m serious.”

he wiped his hands, and your eyes followed unconsciously.

that’s when you saw it.

the obvious bulge straining against his jeans. heat flooded your cheeks, hotter than the sun outside. sweat slid down between your breasts, but this time it had nothing to do with the weather.

you gulped and looked at him. his t-shirt clung to every line of his chest like a second skin. the few inches between you suddenly felt impossibly small.

when he finally met your eyes, his pupils were blown wide.

people would call you a liar if you said you’d never noticed how attractive steve was. how broad his back looked when he stretched, how his biceps strained against those tight shirts. knowing you’d caused this reaction in him made your head spin.

“steve…” you breathed. you quickly glanced outside. the street was empty; it was the worst hour of a summer afternoon. no one was stupid enough to be out.

“fuck, i’m sorry, i don’t know why—” he started, hands moving nervously, but you weren’t listening anymore.

you bit your lip, then moved without thinking. you straddled him, settling on his lap. the sound that left steve’s mouth sent shivers through you. his body burned under yours, skin slick with sweat.

you slid your hands down his damp chest. he tensed, hips lifting instinctively to meet you.

“shit,” he moaned softly. his hands settled firm and sure on your lower back, holding you close like he’d been waiting years for permission.

“what are we doing?” he asked, eyes dropping to your lips before finding yours again. “i don’t know—” you struggled, because he kept moving, pressing his hard cock right against your core. “you’re the one who had a little problem down there,” you teased breathlessly. he smirked, and you laughed, the sound shaky with want. “says the one on top of me right now.” his hands slid down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter.

you couldn’t wait any longer, so you kissed him, one hand cupping the back of his neck while the other slipped into his hair. when he pulled back for air, looking around nervously, you rolled your hips slow and deliberate. “someone could walk by and se—fuck.”

“we’re the only idiots trying to get heatstroke in the middle of the street, steve.” you kissed him again, deeper. that was all it took. he opened his mouth, tongue sliding against yours, turning the kiss messy and desperate. the salt on his lips mixed with the lingering sweetness of ice cream. your hips ground together, pulling soft, needy sounds from both of you.

“god, you feel so fucking good.” he murmured against your mouth. one hand stayed on your hip guiding you, while the other cupped the back of your neck, pressing your foreheads together.

his other hand tugged at your soaked tank top; you helped him pull it off and did the same with his shirt. your palms slid over his bare biceps, squeezing the firm muscles as you moved faster.

your lips brushed with every shared breath, every gasp. you clenched around the hard press of him, desperate for more. he thrust up harder, chasing friction. the heat started pooling low in your belly, almost burning.

steve set a rhythm, steady and deep, like he never wanted it to end.

“i’m close,” he whispered into your mouth.

“me too,” you breathed, blood buzzing under your skin.

he gripped your ass again, helping you move exactly how you both needed. “just like that… oh god.” his head fell back against the seat, neck exposed and shining with sweat. you kissed along his throat until the pleasure crashed over you. “fuck,” you moaned, hips stuttering as waves rolled through you. steve kept going, chasing his own release until his body tensed and trembled beneath you, a soft whine pressed into your ear.

you stayed like that, foreheads together, breathing each other in while the car windows fogged from the heat of your bodies. the tension melted away, and suddenly you both burst into laughter, giddy and a little dazed.

you left a small, sweet peck on his lips.

he kissed you again, slower this time, cupping your jaw gently while his other hand rubbed soothing circles on your sticky back.

outside, the sun kept beating down, but for once the heat felt perfect.

——————————————————————————

The wild notes of the saxophone and the deep, steady beat of the double bass seem to bounce right against your chest. It’s a rhythm that tells you exactly what kind of night this will be: fast, loud, and exhausting.

You take a deep breath and walk up the wide stone steps. As soon as you enter the palace, the heat of the room hits you. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke wraps around you like a heavy blanket and it makes your eyes water for a second, barely letting you see the massive, rich ballroom in front of you. The ceiling is painted extravagantly and giant crystal chandeliers hang from above, making everything shine with a soft golden light.

Before you can even take off your coat, a thin, cold hand grabs your arm tightly, pulling you into the crowd.

"But if it isn’t the most beautiful person in all of America! My gorgeous girl!"

A loud, sharp voice rings in your ears. Even with the loud music, you hear her perfectly. Because of the heavy Italian accent, it’s not hard to recognize who has caught you. It’s Mrs. Agnelli. She has claimed you as her prize for the evening, and you know right away that escaping her claws is going to be impossible.

You already knew this would happen. You’ve prepared yourself since this very rich and powerful family invited you to their "business meeting" — which is what they call it, even though you know it’s just an excuse to throw a huge, wild Italian party — and you knew it would be a long, tiring night.

But you could not say no. The offer to come here was too valuable. The Agnelli family has been in control of Rome’s high society for many years. Knowing them is the best way to get inside the European movie industry; and given that you came to this country looking to grow, to leave behind the old Hollywood rules, and to expand your horizons as an actress, you need these people.

And the truth is, they are in love with you. They are completely obsessed. Maybe the whole world is right now.

With the natural elegance you show, your fresh beauty, and your raw talent, it’s very hard for them not to stare like fools. You are the young, promising actress who crossed the ocean to give them her art. Or, at least, that is the story the newspapers are telling everyone.

"It’s so nice to see you, Mrs. Agnelli," you answer. Your Italian is still a bit rough, but you are trying. You practice every morning, but speaking it in a loud room is different.

"Oh, please, come in, come in!" the older woman says, not really listening to you. She links her arm through yours, practically dragging you deeper into the giant room.

As you walk with Mrs. Agnelli, you look around. Every face is completely unknown to you. There are young, handsome men in very expensive suits holding glasses of dark liquor. There are young women, dressed in shiny silk, laughing too loudly, trying very hard to be accepted by the rich families. 

It’s a complete circus. 

It’s a world that does not interest you at all, but sadly, it’s a world you cannot escape.

Not if you want to have the success you dream of. Not if you want the perfect life.

Mrs. Agnelli finally drops you off at a table with a group of older, very well-dressed people, before running away to greet another guest. You are trapped.

You look at the clock on the wall. Maybe forty minutes have passed since you arrived at the party, and you want nothing more than to run back to your hotel, take off your shoes, and sleep.

Luckily, a waiter passes by and you grab a strong drink. The cold gin is the only thing helping you pass the time.

"I heard that you are filming a movie just outside the city," one woman says. Before she speaks, she looks at you from head to toe, judging your dress, your hair, and your jewelry.

You put on your best face. You just smile kindly, the exact same way you do in every interaction, in every interview, in every set.

"Yes, that is right," you reply, keeping your answer short but polite. "We started filming last week."

"And... is it true that Mr. Mastroianni is part of the movie?" a younger girl next to the woman whispers. She bites her lip, trying to look cute and flirty.

"Oh my God, what a handsome man," another woman sighs, fanning her face. All the women in the circle laugh quietly together, sharing a secret look.

You just keep smiling. You take a slow sip of your drink. You know exactly how this game is played: they want secrets; they want gossip to share with their friends tomorrow.

"I can’t really say anything about that," you answer smoothly, using your best innocent voice. "The director wants to keep things quiet. The only thing I can say is that—"

"It’s Miss Esperanto," one of the man whispers sharply, completely cutting off your sentence.

Suddenly, the mood in the room changes. The small laughs stop. The whispers around your table begin to spread across the whole room like a wave of water. Slowly, trying not to look too obvious, every single person in the room turns their body to look at the main entrance doors.

Your back goes perfectly straight. You feel a sudden cold feeling in your chest just as the young woman steps through the door. And, as if this were a script for a dramatic movie, her eyes scan the room and lock straight onto yours.

Josephine Esperanto.

She stands there with perfect posture and an elegant, slow walk. She is wearing a dark green dress that hugs her body, and diamonds shine around her neck. She has a very powerful place in the movie industry here. You can’t say that you don’t know her, because everyone knows her. But that definitely does not mean you are good friends. In fact, it is exactly the opposite.

From the rumors on the Italian streets to the quiet whispers on the movie sets, you know exactly who she is. You know she’s a very difficult woman to work with. She gets angry easily, she demands the best dressing rooms, and she hates sharing the spotlight.

More importantly, you know she’s not happy at all about your arrival in the Italian industry. You have settled in too quickly. You are getting the roles she used to get. The magazines are calling you the "new star," replacing her name. 

You call her feelings fear… maybe envy. Perhaps a mix of both.

However, you are not going to let your pride win. You are not that kind of person. You do not want to start a fight in the middle of a party.

So, showing how polite you are, you slowly tilt your head down in a respectful greeting. But you don’t blink. You never take your eyes off her.

You don’t get the same polite greeting back.

Josephine looks at you for a long moment, her face totally blank. Then, she quickly turns her head away to whisper something into the ear of the person standing next to her.

That is when you finally notice that she did not come to the party alone.

You look at the man she’s whispering to. Even from far away, you can recognize him. It’s her closest friend and guide, Rufus Priori. Seeing his face makes your stomach turn. You can’t deny that you have had more than a few ugly fights with him back in the crazy American film industry.

He was a producer on your second movie. He did nothing but try to cut your lines, make you look bad, and you had to fight him every single day on set just to be respected. 

Seeing him here, standing next to your new rival, makes perfect sense. Snakes like to stay together.

But your eyes do not stay on Rufus for very long as your gaze quickly moves to another young man standing on Josephine’s other side.

You search your memory, but you can’t recognize his face from anywhere. Still, his presence is impossible to ignore. 

He’s tall, standing high above the Italian men in the room. His dark hair is perfectly combed back and shiny under the lights. His black tuxedo fits his body so perfectly it looks like it was painted on him.

By the way he stands, with his hands in his pockets, looking around the room with relaxed, but fascinated eyes, two things are undeniable to you:

First, he’s American. He has that classic, careless Hollywood look. Second, he’s just another lapdog for Josephine. Another pretty boy she brought to carry her bags and tell her how beautiful she is.

How boring, you think to yourself. You take another drink of your gin, ready to turn back to the gossiping women and ignore the new arrivals.

But the night is not going to be that easy.

—

“And that, fundamentally, is how the entire machinery turns.”

The guy finally finishes his endless monologue, his lips curling upward into an almost mocking smile that suggests he believes he has just imparted the secrets of the universe to a mere mortal.

You offer nothing more than a shallow, mechanical nod. Your lips stretch into a polite, practiced smile — the kind you have perfected while navigating the shark-infested waters of the Italian social elite. 

Without a word, you raise your crystal glass to your lips, taking a slow, measured sip of your… third gin? Fourth? You have completely lost count of the drinks, just as you have lost count of the minutes you’ve been trapped in this corner.

Antonio. Or was it Oliverio? Honestly, the name evaporated from your memory the moment he introduced himself. He has spent the better part of the last half-hour cornering you against a marble pillar, meticulously detailing the inner workings of his father’s publishing house.

According to him, it’s the most prestigious, groundbreaking publishing empire in all of Italy. A titan of literature. 

But you are fairly certain your brain shut down and went on vacation somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark. 

You could not possibly care less if his father printed the Bible itself.

As if dictated by some unspoken, strictly timed Italian social cue you have yet to master, the atmosphere in the grand hall shifts.

People begin to drift away from the velvet sofas and the buffet tables, gravitating toward the polished parquet floor in the center of the room. The band strikes up a lively, bouncing rhythm.

“Do you dance?”

The voice breaks your trail of thoughts. You blink, turning your gaze back to the boy. Lucas? No. You’ve officially surrendered to simply not knowing his name.

You shake your head, the polite smile returning like a mask snapping into place. 

“No, thank you. I think I’ll just watch for now.”

His perfectly groomed eyebrows knit together. He opens his mouth, clearly preparing to insist, likely armed with some terrible line about how a beautiful woman shouldn’t stand alone. The dread pools in your stomach.

But before he can utter a single syllable, a heavy, reassuring warmth settles onto your left shoulder. You are gently but firmly guided to turn around.

“What an absolute joy to see you here.”

The voice is deep, gravelly, and laced with a rich, unmistakable Roman cadence. You don’t need to look to know who it belongs to.

“Mr. Agnelli,” you say, the genuine relief in your voice completely unfeigned. “Thank you so much for the invitation. It’s a breathtaking evening.”

You turn fully toward your host, a genuine smile finally breaking through your fatigue. 

Mr. Agnelli stands tall, an unlit cigar caught between his thick fingers.

However, the warmth of your smile dies a sudden, icy death the very second your eyes drift past him and register the figure standing elegantly at his right side.

“Please, my dear. There is absolutely no need to thank me,” Agnelli booms warmly, oblivious to the sudden drop in your internal temperature. “My wife and I truly wanted you here tonight. We are celebrating the future of cinema, after all.” He steps slightly to the side, gesturing broadly to the woman beside him. “You know Josephine, don’t you?”

She doesn’t just look at you; she assesses you. Her gaze starts at the hem of your gown, slowly raking its way up your body, cataloging every stitch, every perceived flaw, before finally meeting your eyes. 

Her lips curve into a slow, mocking smirk — a micro-expression of pure, unadulterated condescension that makes every muscle in your jaw tighten. You have to actively bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the overwhelming urge to roll your eyes.

“I haven’t had the pleasure, no,” you say, your voice perfectly even, betraying none of the acid bubbling in your chest.

Her smirk falters for a fraction of a second at your cool dismissal, but Josephine is a professional. The smile instantly solidifies into something brilliantly, terrifyingly fake. She tilts her head, her dark, perfectly coiffed hair catching the chandelier’s light.

“Well, we certainly have heard each other’s names floating around the studios,” Josephine purrs, her voice meticulously controlled, every syllable dripping with faux sweetness. “Ultimately, the film industry is quite a small world, isn’t it?”

You can’t argue with the facts. 

At the end of the day, two ambitious American girls fiercely clawing out a space for themselves in the male-dominated Italian film industry of the 1950s do not go unnoticed. 

You are constantly compared in the trades, constantly pitted against one another for the same roles, the same magazine covers, the same oxygen.

You simply smile back, a mirror of her own dangerous sweetness. 

“Indeed it is.”

“So,” she continues, taking a deliberate step closer as Mr. Agnelli suddenly turns away, distracted by a passing politician and leaving the two of you stranded in each other’s gravity. “I heard the news. You secured the lead for the new project shooting just outside the city.”

Now that Agnelli’s watchful eyes are gone, the heavy veil of pretense drops slightly. Your smile dissapears, morphing into a look of quiet challenge. You hold your ground.

“Yes. It’s a fascinating script,” you reply, your tone clipped. “Easily the best project set up in Rome this entire season.”

Josephine lets out a breathy, dismissive laugh that sounds like breaking glass. 

“I highly doubt that,” she says, her words razor-sharp and delivered with deadly precision. “If it truly were the best project in Rome, darling, they wouldn’t have settled for casting you.”

Your brow furrows. The insult hits its mark, a quick, stinging jab to your pride. 

You open your mouth, a sharp retort already forming on your tongue, but before you can unleash it, a glass materializes in the space between you.

“Your drink.”

The voice is male, surprisingly soft, but carrying an underlying resonance that demands immediate attention.

You glance up. It’s the man who had walked in a few steps behind Josephine earlier — the one you had initially dismissed as just another member of her endless entourage. 

Up close, the impact of his presence is startling. 

His hair is flawlessly styled and he wears a dark suit that fits his broad shoulders so perfectly it looks as though it was tailored to his exact musculature just this morning.

Josephine immediately breaks her venomous eye contact with you. Her entire demeanor shifts as she looks at the guy. She smiles — a genuine, almost predatory smile — and reaches up, lightly trailing her manicured fingernails down the sharp angle of his jawline.

“Thank you, my angel,” she coos, her voice dropping an octave.

For a microsecond, the guy looks entirely captivated. His eyes soften, locked onto hers, completely enchanted by the breadcrumb of affection she just threw at him. 

But the spell is brutally, violently brief.

“Lucas! Darling, it’s been ages!” Josephine suddenly screeches, her attention violently snapping to someone across the room. Without a second thought, she pushes past the suited man, her shoulder bumping his chest as she abandons him entirely to chase down a more useful connection, leaving him standing there holding the empty air where she had just been.

You watch him carefully. You don’t miss the subtle, almost imperceptible way he reacts. 

He shakes his head slightly, as if trying to clear a sudden ringing in his ears. His lips press together into a tight, hard line. He takes a slow, deep breath, his broad chest rising and falling beneath the expensive suit, until he manages to reassemble his composure. 

He locks his emotions away into a neat little box.

And then, his eyes find yours.

They are dark, intense, and startlingly observant. For a long moment, the roaring noise of the party around you seems to dial down to a low hum.

“I do believe it is going to be the finest project in all of Rome,” he says. 

His voice is smooth, carrying a hint of an American accent that hasn’t quite been erased by his time in Europe.

You frown, taken aback by the sudden intrusion. You had assumed he was merely part of Josephine’s scenery.

“Excuse me?” you ask, your tone laced with genuine confusion.

He laughs softly. It’s a warm, surprisingly self-deprecating sound. 

He straightens his posture, and suddenly you realize just how tall he really is. 

“How terribly rude of me,” he murmurs, stepping forward and extending a large, scarred hand toward you. “Lockwood. Sean Lockwood.”

Hesitantly, you reach out and take his hand. 

The moment your skin meets his, the physical contrast is startling. His hand easily engulfs yours. Despite the immaculate tailoring of his suit and the high-society setting, his palm is rough, marked by calluses, and his grip is firm, commanding, and decidedly masculine. 

It completely contradicts the pathetic, lapdog image he projected just moments ago while standing beside Josephine.

“Good evening, Mr. Lockwood,” you reply, trying to ignore the sudden flutter of heat in your chest. “I am—”

“I know exactly who you are,” he interrupts smoothly, his voice dropping slightly as he pronounces your full name with a reverence that catches you completely off guard. “I’m a big admirer of your work, truthfully.”

To your absolute horror — and it is something that almost never happens to you anymore, not after years of hardening your heart to the industry’s superficial flattery — you feel a sudden, betraying heat rise to your cheeks. 

You are blushing.

His hand gently squeezes yours one last time before he slowly lets go. The loss of contact leaves your fingers feeling strangely cold. 

You let your hand drop, curling it into a loose fist at your side, trying to preserve the phantom sensation of his touch. 

Desperate to regain your composure, you clear your throat and take a quick, defensive sip of your gin.

“So,” you start, attempting to project an air of casual indifference. You nod your head toward the other side of the room, where Josephine is currently laughing dramatically, throwing her head back for an audience of captivated producers. “Are you a... friend of Miss Esperanto?”

Sean turns his head slightly, following your gaze. The look that washes over his face is incredibly complex, a heavy mixture of emotions that are impossible to fully decipher. There is pity there, yes. But also a deep, lingering ache. 

It’s the tragic, universally recognizable expression of a man hopelessly trapped in the gravitational pull of a toxic star. 

He looks like just another poor casualty standing in the endlessly long line of suitors waiting on the venomous actress.

“Something like that,” he says quietly, lifting his own crystal glass and taking a long, slow drink.

But almost as quickly as the melancholy appeared, it vanishes. 

He turns back, his attention snapping away from Josephine and returning fully to you — or rather, to the ornate velvet wall just over your left shoulder. He reaches a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a sleek silver cigarette case and a matching lighter. With practiced ease, he flicks a cigarette to his lips and lights it.

He offers the case to you. You shake your head silently.

Taking a deep drag, he turns his head sharply to the side, forcefully exhaling a thick plume of gray smoke away from your face to ensure you aren’t caught in the cloud. 

You can’t deny it — it’s a surprisingly thoughtful, gentlemanly gesture in a room full of men who usually blow smoke directly into your eyes.

You study his profile. 

He doesn’t seem like a bad guy. 

There is a quiet intelligence in his eyes, a grounded reality that is severely lacking in this room. But you are not naive. Considering he runs in the inner circle of a viper like Josephine Esperanto, you know that survival dictates you keep him at a safe, guarded distance.

He turns back to you, parting his lips, clearly about to say something else, when a sudden, jarring force grips your arm.

“Come on, enough talking. Let’s dance.”

It takes your startled brain a full second to register the face attached to the hand pulling at your arm. It’s the same annoyingly persistent boy from earlier. Lucas. Antonio. Whoever. He has returned, smelling strongly of whiskey and unearned confidence, and he’s attempting to literally drag you toward the jazz band.

Before you can even open your mouth to formulate a sharp rejection, a sudden movement blurs in your peripheral vision.

A large, heavy hand lands squarely on your waist. With a swift, fluid motion, you are pulled backward, away from the boy’s grasp, and your back collides gently but firmly against a solid, unyielding chest.

“She’s with me.”

The voice resonates through the chest pressed against your back. Sean’s tone no longer the soft, deferential voice of the pathetic little puppy dog who was carrying drinks for the starlet. This voice is dark, heavy, and absolute. It’s a voice that imposes immediate authority — the voice of a man accustomed to commanding a room, a man whose name, whatever weight it holds, demands instant respect.

The annoying guy freezes. His drunken bravado shatters instantly as he looks up at Sean’s imposing frame. His face pales, and he lets out a low, frustrated sound before he sharply turns on his heel and scurries away toward the opposite side of the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd like a frightened rabbit.

The sudden silence between you and Sean is deafening.

You clear your throat softly, your heart hammering against your ribs. You take a cautious half-step forward, creating some space between your back and his chest, though you are careful not to move too far away.

“Thank you,” you say, looking up at him over your shoulder. “But really, that wasn’t necessary. I can handle myself.”

Sean shakes his head, a genuine, almost boyish smile breaking across his face and completely changing the hard landscape of his features. 

Without taking his eyes off you, he leans over, crushing his half-smoked cigarette into a nearby crystal ashtray. He then gently pries the gin glass from your tight grip, setting it down on the table beside you.

“I know you can,” he says smoothly. “But unfortunately, now you are actually going to have to dance with me. Otherwise, he’s going to realize it was a lie and come right back to bother you.”

You let out a breath of disbelief, shaking your head. 

“No, no, I am not—”

But before you can finish your protest, his large hand completely envelops yours. His grip is firm, leaving absolutely no room for argument, and with a surprisingly gentle force, he pulls you directly into the sea of bodies on the dance floor.

The band is in the middle of a frantic, swinging crescendo. As soon as you hit the floor, Sean doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into frame.

Almost immediately, his movements reveal the truth: he’s not a dancer. 

His steps are a bit too fast, a little jerky, and entirely lack the fluid, practiced elegance of the wealthy Italian men you have danced around here. He’s rough around the edges, stepping slightly off the beat.

But what he lacks in technical grace, he violently overcompensates for in pure, unadulterated confidence.

He spins you outward with a sudden, dizzying force. You gasp, but before you can lose your balance, his hand yanks you right back. The momentum sends you crashing gently against his solid chest. The sheer audacity of his clumsy, confident maneuvering catches you off guard, and a loud, bright burst of laughter escapes your lips before you can stop it.

You look up at him, your guard finally beginning to lower. The tension that had been coiling in your neck all night begins to dissolve. 

Under the flashing lights, surrounded by the blaring horns of the jazz band, you allow yourself to surrender to the rhythm. Your body begins to move in sync with his, finding a strange, chaotic harmony in his erratic steps. 

For a brief, intoxicating moment, the suffocating atmosphere of the Agnelli party fades away. It is just the music, the heat of the room, and the startling warmth of Sean Lockwood’s hands on you.

He spins you out again. You smile, ready to be pulled back into the warmth of his chest.

But as you turn back to face him, the smile dies on your lips.

You look at his face, expecting to find those intense, dark eyes looking down at you. 

Instead, you find his gaze completely detached. 

His eyes have drifted away from your face and are locked onto something far over your left shoulder. You don’t even have to turn around to know what he is looking at. You can feel the exact trajectory of his stare.

He’s looking at Josephine.

A cold, heavy stone drops into the pit of your stomach. A visceral, twisting sensation ripples through your entire body. It’s an ugly, uncomfortable feeling that takes you a second to identify.

It’s absolutely not jealousy. You scoff at the very idea. How could you possibly be jealous of a woman like her? You wouldn’t trade your soul for her hollow life in a million years.

No, it isn’t jealousy. It’s pride.

Perhaps you have grown far too accustomed to being the center of attention. Perhaps the ego of being an actress has corrupted you more than you care to admit. But whatever the reason, it infuriates you to your very core to realize you are sharing this moment. 

It sickens you to realize that this incredibly handsome, enigmatic man holding you in his arms is not actually present with you. 

His body is here, his hands are on your waist, but his mind and his focus are tied to another woman across the room. 

You are nothing but a placeholder. 

A prop in whatever tragic, twisted game he’s playing to capture the attention of a woman who treats him like dirt.

The song reaches its final, explosive climax. The drummer crashes the cymbals, the brass section blares a final chord, and the room erupts into polite, gloved applause.

Sean blinks, as if suddenly waking from a trance. He looks back down at you, a charming smile automatically returning to his lips as he reaches up to smooth a stray lock of perfectly styled hair that had fallen across his forehead. 

His lips part, clearly preparing to say something charming, something to keep you on the floor.

But you don’t give him the chance.

Before the first syllable can leave his mouth, you pull your hands free from his grip. You don’t say a word. You don’t offer a polite smile. You simply turn your back on him and step into the sea of bodies.

You move quickly, your heels clicking sharply against the parquet floor as you weave your way through the crowd, desperate to put as much distance between yourself and Sean Lockwood as humanly possible. You don’t look back. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

But as you disappear into the shadows of the grand hall, slipping past the velvet curtains and the oblivious socialites, a chill runs down your spine. Even hidden among the hundreds of people, you are absolutely certain of one thing.

You can feel his eyes burning into your back.

And as you push through the grand oak doors, stepping out into the cool Roman night, you know with a terrifying certainty that it will not be the last time tonight you feel the phantom weight of Sean Lockwood’s stare.

—

The Agnelli Palace is not called a palace for nothing. 

In less than half an hour of wandering away from the crowd, you find yourself completely and utterly lost. You had originally walked away from the main ballroom just to get away from the loud music, the fake laughs, and the suffocating crowd of rich people, but now you are paying a heavy price for that choice.

There are simply too many rooms in this place. 

Every corner you turn reveals another long corridor, another dark hallway, or a set of secret wooden doors that seem to lead absolutely nowhere. 

Here, the noise of the party has faded into a very quiet, distant hum that you can barely hear. The laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the jazz music sound like they belong to a completely different world.

Just when you are about to give up entirely and turn around to find a servant to help you, you see a faint, cool light at the end of a narrow, dimly lit passage. You walk toward it, your heels clicking faster against the floor. 

At the end of the hall, there is a heavy wooden door with large glass panes. Through the glass, you can see the deep, dark blue of the night sky over Rome. 

You walk a little faster, your heart feeling a bit lighter than it did a moment ago. You press your palm against the cold metal handle and push the door open. It moves with a soft, slow creak, letting in a sudden rush of air.

When you take your first step outside, the cold air of Rome immediately wraps around your bare skin. It’s a sharp, freezing wind that hits your exposed shoulders like a shock to your system. 

Instantly, you regret leaving your expensive coat back in the main ballroom.

The chill makes you shiver, but despite the cold, you do not turn around to go back inside. The freezing air is much better than the hot, stuffy air of the party. It feels real. It wakes you up.

You walk over to the edge of the balcony and lean forward, resting your elbows on the cold stone railing. It’s a massive, beautiful balcony, carved with old, detailed designs that must have cost a fortune to create. 

You look down at the private gardens below. They are absolutely beautiful, even in the dark of night. The green hedges are cut perfectly into clean geometric shapes, forming a beautiful pattern on the ground.

The peaceful silence of the night is wonderful, but you know it can’t last long in a place like this. 

Suddenly, you hear the clear sound of footsteps coming from behind you. They are heavy, slow, and deliberate steps, breaking the quiet air of the balcony. Instantly, your body goes completely stiff. Your professional habits and defense mechanisms take over before you can even think about it. You straighten your back, lift your chin, and put on your well-practiced social smile.

It’s the exact smile you use for the cameras on the red carpet, for the big studio producers, and for anyone at these parties who comes up to tell you how amazing, how talented, or how beautiful you are. 

It’s a shield. 

You prepare yourself to look charming, to say the right words, and to play the social game perfectly, just like you always do. But when you turn your head slightly and see who is actually walking through the doorway onto the balcony, your fake smile disappears completely from your face.

A wave of genuine annoyance washes over you.

But at the exact same time, a strange, unexpected feeling of relief settles deep in your chest. You realize that with him, you don’t have to pretend.

You let out a long, heavy sigh, turning your back to him completely and looking out at the dark gardens once again, letting him see your irritation.

"Did your owner leave you off the leash?" you say.

Your voice is dry, cold, and incredibly sharp. It cuts through the quiet night air like a knife, showing absolutely no warmth or kindness.

Sean does not get angry at your harsh, insulting words. Instead, he just lets out a soft, low laugh. The sound is warm and relaxed, a direct contrast to the freezing Roman air around you. 

He walks over to the edge of the balcony, moving with a slow, confident stride that shows off his tall frame, and stops right next to you. 

He leans his hips against the stone railing, looking down at the dark garden just like you were doing a moment ago.

"I guess I deserve that..." he says quietly.

You do not answer him right away. 

You keep your eyes fixed on the marble fountain below, watching the water rise and fall under the dim lights of the palace grounds. 

For a few long seconds, neither of you says a single word. The silence between you is incredibly heavy, filled with an unspoken tension that has been building up between you all night inside the ballroom, every time your eyes met across the crowded room. 

It’s a strange mix of deep irritation and weird comfort. 

You kinda hate him, but you also feel somehow drawn to him.

Then, you hear the familiar, sharp click of metal. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him pull his silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his expensive designer jacket. 

He opens it with a smooth, slow motion and holds it out toward you, offering you one.

This time, you accept it. You reach out your hand, your cold fingers accidentally brushing against his warm skin for a brief, electric second, and you take a single cigarette from the silver case, bringing it to your lips. 

Sean matches your movement perfectly, taking one for himself. He pulls out a heavy lighter, flicks it open with his thumb, and a small, bright yellow flame appears between your faces. 

He steps a little bit closer to you, using his broad shoulders to block the cold wind from putting out the flame. He brings the fire to the tip of your cigarette. As you inhale, the tip glows a bright, hot orange, lighting up your face.

During those few seconds, neither of you looks away. You look straight into his dark eyes, and he looks directly into yours. 

The light of the flame reflects in his eyes, making them look incredibly intense, focused, and deep. 

You take a slow, deep puff, letting the warm smoke fill your lungs before you delicately remove the cigarette from your mouth with your fingers. You turn your head away from him, looking back out into the cold night, and blow the smoke out into the air.

Even without looking directly at him, you can see his face through the corner of your eye. He is smiling again. It’s a small, knowing smile that makes you want to shake your head in annoyance. 

He lights his own cigarette, the sudden flame illuminating his sharp jawline for a brief moment before he closes the lighter with a sharp, metallic snap that sounds loud in the quiet night.

"I wasn’t lying when I said I am a big admirer," he says, his voice smooth and calm as he blows a cloud of smoke to the side, away from your face.

You shake your head, a small, sarcastic sound escaping your throat. 

"Don’t ruin it," you reply, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark trees in the distance. "We were actually getting along well for a second there. Don’t start with the fake compliments."

Sean turns his body slightly toward you, lowering his head a bit so he can try to catch your eye. He wrinkles his forehead, looking confused by your reaction, but you can see the clear amusement hiding beneath the cigarette resting between his lips. 

"Why would that ruin it?" he asks, his tone genuinely curious about your thoughts.

"Don’t say those kinds of stupid things just because you want to get someone into your bed tonight," you say bluntly, turning to look at him. 

You don’t try to be nice or polite about it. You know exactly how men like him operate, especially the handsome actors in this industry who think they can have absolutely anyone they want with a few nice words and a charming smile. 

You have seen it a thousand times, and you refuse to be another one of his games.

Sean pauses, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. He leans his elbow back on the cold stone of the balcony, turning his entire body to face you now, letting the cold wind hit his back. 

He looks at you with an expression that is half hurt and half challenged, as if he can’t believe you just said that to him. 

"Do you really think that low of me?" he asks, his voice dropping a bit lower, sounding softer and more serious than before.

You look over at him, your eyes meeting his. 

For a split second, a real, genuine smile tries to break through your serious expression. You find his frustration slightly funny. But to hide it from him, you bring the cigarette back to your lips and take another long, slow puff. You let the thick white smoke hide your face and your emotions from him.

"Well, if that is the case... thank you," you say after a moment, your voice dripping with heavy sarcasm as you blow the smoke out.

Sean stares at you, studying every single detail of your face as if he’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle that he can’t figure out. The heavy silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. It feels much tighter, filled with his growing frustration, his confusion, and his deep curiosity about you. 

He takes another quick drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing red, then speaks up quickly, breaking the quiet before you can turn away from him again.

"How do you do it?" he asks, the words coming out fast, as if he couldn’t keep them inside anymore.

You wrinkle your forehead, genuinely surprised by the sudden change in his tone and the question itself. 

You turn your head to look at him properly, removing the cigarette from your lips. 

"Do what?"

"This," Sean says. He moves his hands away from the stone railing, opening his arms wide to gesture at the massive, glowing palace around you, the expensive party happening inside with all the powerful executives, and finally, he points a finger directly at you. "Everything. It’s like... everyone just falls right at your feet the moment you walk into a room. It doesn’t matter what you say to them, it doesn’t matter what you do. You always manage to get the absolute best projects in the business. You work with the most powerful people in the entire industry. How do you do it? What is your secret?"

There is a real note of desperation in his voice now. The confident, charming Hollywood actor persona has completely disappeared, replaced by something much more raw, honest, and deeply insecure. He looks like a man who is lost in a world he can’t control, looking to you for answers.

You look away from him, turning your gaze back to the dark gardens below. You take a long, slow puff of your cigarette, letting him wait for your answer in the cold.

"You are here tonight too, Sean," you answer quietly, pointing out the obvious truth. 

You’re reminding him that he is also standing in the Agnelli Palace, that he also has access to this exclusive world of extreme wealth, fame, and power. You’re telling him that he is fully capable of all of it too, if he just realized his own worth.

But Sean just lets out a frustrated, heavy sigh. He shakes his head, clearly unhappy with your answer, thinking you are just dismissing him. 

"It’s not the same," he says, his voice dropping an octave, sounding incredibly tired and defeated.

"Why isn’t it?" you ask, turning your head back to look at him, your curiosity growing as you see his vulnerability.

"Because it just isn’t!" he says, his voice rising a bit, sounding a little frantic and desperate in the quiet night. He stops himself, taking a deep breath of the cold air to calm his racing thoughts before anyone inside can hear him. 

He looks down at his expensive leather shoes for a second, then looks back up at you, his eyes wide and completely open in the dim light of the balcony. 

"Because... because I will never be like that. You all have so much real talent. So much hunger inside you to win. So much natural charisma that makes people look at you. So much—"

"You all?" you interrupt him, cutting him off right in the middle of his sentence before he can finish his list.

He stops talking, blinking at you in surprise, caught off guard by your interruption. "You and… Josephine"

A soft, sharp laugh escapes your throat. It’s a bitter, sarcastic sound that echoes slightly against the cold stone walls of the balcony. 

"Right... of course," you say, your voice turning cold as ice. 

Josephine. 

It always comes back to her, doesn’t it? She is the big star, the shining light of the movie, the one everyone wants to talk to, and he’s just the handsome man by her side, the guy who tags along to the big parties. 

You can see how much it hurts his pride, even if he tries to hide it.

You take one last, deep puff of your cigarette, watching the red tip glow bright one final time in the darkness. You turn around, pressing the glowing tip firmly against the cold stone of the balcony railing, crushing it until it is completely dead and black. You drop the leftover filter into a small glass tray nearby. Then, you turn back to face him completely, your eyes locked onto his.

This time, you do not stay at a safe distance from him. You take a deliberate, slow step forward. Your feet move quietly until your body is almost pressed right against his. You can feel the intense heat radiating from his large frame, a sharp contrast to the freezing Roman air around you. 

It feels dangerous, but you don’t care. 

You look up into his eyes, your faces now only inches apart, close enough that you can see the dark color of his pupils.

"Has anyone ever told you that you act like a little lapdog?" you ask.

Your voice is incredibly low, steady, and completely brutal. You don’t try to hide the harsh truth from him.

Sean’s face changes instantly. His jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscles move, and his forehead deepens into a heavy, angry frown. He looks shocked, insulted, and deeply hurt by your words, his pride taking a massive hit. 

"Excu—" he starts to say, his voice sharp and defensive.

"You are afraid," you say, interrupting him again, your voice full of absolute certainty. You don’t let him defend himself or make excuses for his behavior. "You are terrified. You are scared of what people might say about you if you fail. You care way too much about what people think, about their opinions of you and your work. And it shows, Sean. It shows the very second you walk into a room. Everyone in this industry can smell the fear on you from a mile away. They know they can control you."

As you speak, you raise your hand slowly between your bodies. Your fingers are cold from the night air, but you place them gently on the edge of his expensive suit jacket. 

Slowly, deliberately, you begin to move your fingertips along the fine fabric, tracing the lines of his broad chest, moving down toward his heart. 

You can feel his heart beating incredibly fast beneath the layers of his clothes, reacting to your touch.

"It is a very fine line, you know?" you say, tilting your head to the side, keeping your eyes locked onto his dark ones, completely controlling the moment. "It is a very fine line between having them eat out of the very palm of your hand and at the exact same time, letting them believe that you are just an object for them to use for their own games. You don’t know how to walk that line yet. You just let them use you because you are too afraid to stand up."

The physical closeness between you is intense, almost suffocating. 

Neither of you moves away or breaks the connection. In fact, without even realizing it, your faces have drifted even closer together in the darkness. 

You’re standing so close now that you can feel his warm, heavy breath hitting your face. It carries the smell of the expensive alcohol mixed with the bitter, rich scent of the cigarette smoke you both just shared. It’s an intoxicating, dangerous mix that makes your head spin a little. 

Your eyes drop down to his lips for a brief second, noting the shape of them. He notices your gaze, and by pure instinct, his tongue darts out to wet his dry lips, his breathing becoming heavier.

"It’s not about talent, Mr. Lockwood," you whisper, your voice so soft that your breath brushes against his mouth, teasing him. "It’s about being in the right moment, with the right person, in the absolute perfect place. And knowing how to take what is yours."

Sean looks completely dazed, caught entirely in your spell, unable to think clearly. 

He tilts his head down slightly, closing his eyes a bit, leaning in to close the tiny remaining gap between your lips.

But  just as his lips are about to touch yours, you place your open hand firmly against his chest and give him a sharp, firm push backward. It’s not enough to hurt him or make him fall, but it forces him to take a sudden, clumsy step back away from you. 

He blinks rapidly, his eyes flying open, looking confused, stunned, and completely dizzy from the sudden rejection. He looks like a man who was just woken up from a deep dream.

"Stop acting like a lapdog," you say coldly, looking down your nose at him, re-establishing your distance. "Maybe then you will actually start getting what you want for once in your life. But let me tell you something right now: if you keep following behind her like a good boy, you are never going to be anything more than her eternal shadow. Everyone will just see you as Josephine’s… friend, not as Sean Lockwood."

Before you can say another word to him, and before Sean can even try to find his voice to answer your heavy insult, a loud, cheerful voice calls out from the end of the long hallway inside the palace, breaking the spell completely.

"Just the person I wanted to find right now!"

The thick tension between you and Sean breaks instantly, like a piece of glass shattering on a hard stone floor. 

You turn your head away from him immediately, looking toward the open door of the balcony. A wide, bright smile quickly appears on your face, completely replacing the cold, harsh expression you had just a second ago. You put your mask back on in an instant.

Walking down the hallway are the Agnelli twins.

"If it isn’t the two people who cause the most trouble in all of Rome!" you call out to them, your voice filled with a playful, teasing energy that matches theirs perfectly.

The twins laugh out loud, clearly loving your description of them. They don’t deny it; they are incredibly proud of the chaos they bring wherever they go in Europe. 

The brother steps forward, a mischievous, wild grin on his face. He looks past you for a second, noticing Sean standing there looking frozen, angry, and confused in the shadows, but he quickly turns his full attention back to you, ignoring him. He raises his hand and points toward a dark wooden door further down the corridor, a door that leads to one of the private, hidden rooms of the massive palace.

"We are about to go inside," the brother says, his voice low, private, and highly suggestive. "Do you want some?"

Your eyes slide back to Sean for a brief moment. He’s watching the scene with deep curiosity, but there’s also a look of complete confusion on his face. He seems completely disoriented, trying to figure out who these two young people are and what exactly they are offering you.

"Are you coming?" you ask him, your voice smooth, inviting, and just a little bit mocking.

You don’t wait for him to give you an answer or make up his mind. You turn around on your heel, the sharp sound of your shoes immediately echoing off the stone balcony. 

Your heels click loudly against the cold marble floor of the long hallway as you follow them toward the private room. You don’t even bother to turn around to see if Sean is actually following you. 

You don’t need to check. 

You know that he’s coming right behind you, drawn in by the strange, powerful pull you have over him now, unable to stay away.

The twins lead you into the smaller, dimly lit room down the hall, away from the main areas of the palace. The walls are covered in a dark green silk fabric that absorbs the light, and heavy velvet curtains block out any light or sound from the outside world, making it feel like a secret bunker. 

Inside the room, there are two other young people sitting down on expensive chairs. You don’t know their names, and you don’t care to ask, but you recognize their faces from other high-society parties in Europe. 

Honestly, it doesn’t matter to you at all. To you, they’re all the exact same. All part of the same rich, dirty scum that runs this circus.

"Come on, hurry up and close the door. Our father is already looking for us out there," the sister twin says quickly, looking toward the hallway. She moves over to a large couch, sliding to the side to make space for you. She hits the empty green cushion next to her with her open hand, signaling for you to sit down right there next to her.

You take a seat, smoothing down the fabric of your expensive dress with an easy, elegant motion, acting completely at home in this environment. Then, you look up at the doorway.

Sean enters the room a second later, just as you expected. 

He closes the heavy wooden door behind him, but he stays close to it at first, looking unsure of what to do next or where to stand. 

As you look at him standing there in the dim light, a sudden, intense shiver runs straight down your spine. It’s not a normal feeling at all. It’s sharp, hot, and electric, taking your breath away for a second. 

You can’t explain it, but in that exact moment, something between the two of you just clicks perfectly. It’s a strange, sudden understanding that passes between your eyes across the room, even when you only met a few hours ago at the start of the party.

Sean takes a slow, deliberate step away from the door, his eyes locked onto yours. He walks across the small room toward the couch, his movements a bit looser now, as if he has made a final decision to join your world. He sits down right next to you, his large, heavy body sinking deep into the soft, dark green velvet of the cushion.

You don’t hesitate for even a single second. 

You know exactly what move to make to keep your control over him. 

Without losing an ounce of your elegance or your cool, calm control, you shift your weight, slide over, and sit down directly onto his right thigh. You don’t look at him when you do it, keeping your face calm. But even then you can feel his intense reaction. 

You can feel his eyes on you, his gaze burning into the side of your face and neck. It’s a look of absolute, pure devotion, like a man looking at a queen or something holy that he shouldn’t be allowed to touch. 

His body goes a bit stiff under your weight, but he doesn’t move away from you — he holds his breath, letting you sit there on top of him, accepting your dominance.

"This batch is much better than the last one we got in Milan," the brother twin says, breaking the quiet of the room with a laugh.

He reaches forward over the table and extends a heavy silver tray toward you. In his other hand, he holds a small tube used for inhaling. On top of the polished silver tray, there are several perfect, neat white lines of powder. They sit there under the dim lights of the room, looking clean, sharp and dangerous.

As you look down at the silver tray, you can feel your mouth instantly watering from the sight. The craving hits you fast and hard, a familiar rush of excitement, but you don’t show any sign of desperation to the people around you. You keep your elegant posture.

Quickly, with the smooth, calm movements of a professional who has done this a hundred times before at these kinds of secret parties, you take the small tube from his hand. You lean forward over the silver tray, your dress shifting slightly, place the tube gently against your right nostril, and inhale deeply. You move quickly along the line, taking it all in one smooth, continuous, and perfect breath. 

The sharp, bitter burn hits the back of your throat instantly, making your eyes water slightly and your nose tingle with the chemical heat. 

You pull back slowly, your eyes closing tightly as the powerful chemical rush begins to hit your brain, making your heart beat much faster in your chest and washing away the coldness from the balcony.

"Holy shit," you mutter after a moment, your voice sounding a little raspy, deep, and breathy as you open your eyes and look around. "I believe you. This is incredibly good stuff."

The twins let out loud, messy laughs, clearly pleased with your high praise of their supply. They immediately take the tray back toward themselves and start doing their own lines, their movements practiced, quick, and completely careless of the risks.

You lower your head, your eyes finding Sean again. He’s sitting right beneath you, his thigh supporting your weight, watching the entire scene with a look of pure, dark fascination. 

He looks a bit shocked by how casual and open everyone is about it, but his eyes are wide, glued to the silver tray in front of him, watching the powder disappear.

"You don’t have to take any if you don’t want to, Sean," you tell him softly, leaning down so only he can hear your calm voice. You want to give him an out, to see if he will try to act pure or if he will join in to impress you and the twins.

Sean seems to shake himself out of a deep trance, his eyes moving from the tray up to your face. He blinks quickly, shaking his head as if to clear his mind. 

"No, yes. Yes, I want to do it," he says quickly, his voice suddenly determined, firm, and surprisingly deep. 

He reaches out his large hand, his fingers steady, and takes the silver tray and the tube directly from your hands.

You smile slightly, enjoying his sudden change in attitude, and lean in a bit closer to his face, your breath hitting his cheek. 

"Okay, well, you need to place the tube gently inside your—"

Before you can even finish your sentence of instruction, Sean leans down over the tray, showing he doesn’t need your help. With a fast, incredibly smooth, and highly practiced movement that shows he’s no stranger to this lifestyle, he makes his portion disappear without leaving a single trace of white powder behind on the polished silver surface. 

He pulls back quickly, his head snapping up, his fingers moving to wipe his nose with a smooth motion, and then he reaches out to hand the silver tray back to the brother twin without saying a word.

You stare at him, a bit stunned and completely speechless for a moment. You didn’t expect him to be so fast, so clean, or so experienced with this kind of stuff after how nervous he looked before. 

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised — he is a famous Hollywood actor, after all, and that dark world is completely full of these expensive, secret habits. But still, seeing him do it with such confidence, ease, and raw power makes your cheeks flush with a sudden warmth. A soft pink color creeps up your neck under your skin, and you look away for a brief second to regain your composure, feeling a shift in the power dynamic between you.

The powerful drug hits his system quickly, and you can see the physical change in his body almost instantly. His posture becomes much more relaxed, losing all of his previous stiffness, nervousness, and fear. 

He leans back against the green velvet cushions of the sofa, stretching his left long leg out in front of him. 

As he settles back into the couch, he raises his large, warm hand and places it firmly on your lower back, your fingers pressing into your skin, almost touching your glute through the fabric of your dress. It’s a bold, possessive touch that claims you completely in front of the others in the room, showing he’s no longer acting like a shy boy. But you don’t move away from him. You don’t complain at all about his touch. 

The sister twin looks up from the table, her eyes bright, wide, and fully dilated from the drug. She looks directly at Sean, a curious, knowing smile spreading across her face as she notices where his hand is placed on your body. 

"You came here with Josephine tonight, right?" she asks, her voice sounding loud, sharp, and clear in the quiet, enclosed room, trying to stir up trouble.

Sean nods his head slowly, his voice sounding a bit deeper, rougher, and more relaxed now as the drug takes full effect. 

"Oh, yeah... yeah, we came together."

The brother twin chimes in, leaning back in his chair as he tries to wipe down the silver table with a saliva so there is absolutely no evidence left behind of what they just did in the room.

"Are you staying here at the palace tonight, or are you going back to a hotel in the city center?"

"Yeah, I’m staying here tonight," Sean answers, his eyes fixed entirely on your face now, ignoring the twins completely. He pauses for a second, trying to remember the details they gave him at the front desk. "Room 15, I think? That’s what the servant told me when we arrived."

The sister lets out a sharp, amused laugh, her eyes darting over to your face to see your reaction to the news. 

"Oh, so you two are going to be really close tonight then. Josephine has Room 18, right down the same hall."

You glare at the sister twin, giving her a sharp, angry look with your eyes. You don’t want Sean thinking about Josephine right now. But the sister just smiles wider, biting her bottom lip, clearly enjoying the little bit of drama she’s causing.

Sean doesn’t seem to notice the angry look you gave her, or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. He turns his head to look up at you, his face very close to yours once again, his breath warm against your skin. 

The drug has made his eyes look completely different than they did on the balcony. There is a dark, heavy, and dangerous intensity in his gaze now, a completely different feeling that you can’t fully explain with simple words. It looks like pure, raw hunger, but also like something deeper, something permanent. He looks like a man who has finally decided to take what he wants.

"Are you staying tonight too?" he asks you, his eyes locking onto yours. His voice is incredibly rough now, a low, sexy growl that vibrates right against your skin and makes you feel a sudden wave of heat inside your body.

You look down into his dark eyes, feeling the powerful, fast rush of the toxic in your veins and the heavy heat of his large hand on your lower back. You don’t say a single word to him out loud. You just nod your head slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on his.

Suddenly, he raises his other hand toward your face. His movements are gentle and careful. He brings his hand to your cheek, his fingers warm against your skin, and his thumb moves slowly, softly across the skin just beneath your nose, gently wiping away a tiny bit of white powder that you had missed when you inhaled. 

The feeling of his rough thumb against your sensitive skin makes your breath catch completely in your throat, your lungs freezing. Your heart skips a heavy beat. You freeze in place on his lap, looking straight into his dark, intense eyes, unable to move, breathe, or look away from him. 

"Alright, let’s go. Our father is going to absolutely kill us if we aren’t out there soon to greet the final guests," the brother’s loud voice suddenly breaks the quiet of the room, snapping you out of your deep trance and breaking the moment.

The sudden noise forces you to move away from him. 

You stand up quickly, stepping off Sean’s warm thigh, and reach down with your hands to fix the skirt of your dress, smoothing out the fabric to look perfect again. 

Your heart is beating incredibly fast in your chest from everything that just happened in this dark room. 

You look down at Sean one last time, watching him sit there on the green velvet couch, looking up at you with that same intense, hungry, and confident expression, before you turn around and walk out of the private room, stepping back into the long hallway to face the party once more, not knowing exactly what will happen later tonight.

— 

When you finally close the heavy wooden door of the hotel room behind you and rest the back of your head against the surface, you feel like you could faint right then and there. 

Your knees feel weak, your muscles ache, and a deep, heavy exhaustion seems to have settled directly into your bones.

The moment you both came back at the grand ballroom of the Agnelli palace, Sean had vanished. He didn’t even have the decency to make an excuse or ease his way out of your presence. And you knew perfectly well who he left with.

You had watched them from across the crowded room, catching glimpses of Josephine’s bright laughter through the sea of tuxedos and diamond necklaces. You saw the way Sean leaned in close to hear her speak, the way his hand brushed against her arm. 

In that moment, you made a conscious choice: you decided not to care. You told yourself it didn’t matter. Why should it matter? Sean was an adult, free to ruin himself or chase whatever illusion of high society he wanted. 

You had no claim on him, and he certainly had none on you.

But repeating it didn’t stop the dull ache in your temples. Right now, your head is throbbing violently from the sheer volume of empty conversations you had to endure. You had spent hours trapped in corners with wealthy investors, distant aristocrats, and critics who praised your work with hollow words. 

To survive it all, you had clearly taken a few too many drinks. The alcohol is currently humming in your veins, making the world tilt just a fraction when you move your head too fast.

Slowly, deliberately, you begin to strip away the armor of the evening.

You reach behind your back, your fingers fumbling slightly with the long zipper of your gala dress. With a soft rustle of expensive fabric, the heavy gown slides down your hips, pooling at your feet like a dark wave. You step out of it, leaving it on the floor, not caring that it costs more than most people earn in a year. 

Next come the jewels. You unclasp the heavy diamond necklace that had felt like a collar all night, dropping it onto the vanity table with a sharp click. The matching earrings follow, along with the bracelets.

Finally, you reach up and begin to pull out the dozens of hairpins holding your styled hair in place. As the pins drop onto the table, you run your fingers through your scalp, shaking it out, finally letting out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding since eight o’clock in the evening.

You reach for your silk robe, sliding your arms into the wide sleeves. You tie the belt loosely around your waist. The cool, incredibly soft fabric wraps around your bare skin, hugging your body perfectly. It’s a relief compared to the tight, suffocating structure of the dress.

Seeking a moment of quiet, you walk over to the large glass window that overlooks the estate. You press your forehead against the cool glass and look outside. The party is truly over. There are no more black cars lined up in the grand driveway of the Agnelli palace, and the long, manicured gardens are completely empty. Not a single soul is walking down the stone paths under the moonlight. 

The world out there is completely still, completely silent.

Then, a sudden, sharp knock on your door cuts through the quiet of the room.

You jump slightly, your head snapping quickly toward the door. Your heart gives a sudden, hard thud against your ribs. You frown, looking at the clock on the bedside table. It’s well past three in the morning. Who could possibly be knocking at this hour of the night?

For a second, panic flares up in your chest, but you quickly force yourself to calm down. It’s probably just a maid, you think. The Agnelli staff is famous for their round-the-clock service. It’s likely just someone coming by to check if the room needs fresh towels, or perhaps to leave a bottle of water on the nightstand for the morning hangover.

Letting out a long, tired sigh, you pull the edges of your silk robe tighter against your chest, ensuring you are covered. You walk slowly across the plush carpet toward the door. You don’t even bother to ask who it is through the wood. You are too tired for caution, and you fully expect to find a polite, quiet woman dressed in a neat black-and-white uniform, offering a servile smile.

Instead, you swing the door open, and the sight on the other side completely steals the air right out of your lungs.

Sean is leaning slightly against the doorframe, looking completely different from the perfectly polished man who had walked into the gala hours ago. His thick, brown hair is beautifully messy, far looser than it had been during the party. A few stray locks have fallen damply across his forehead, shadowing his eyes. 

The formal black bow tie that had been tied so neatly around his collar is completely undone, hanging loosely around his unbuttoned neck like a discarded ribbon. 

His expensive tuxedo jacket is wide open, the white shirt beneath it wrinkled, with the top three buttons undone to reveal the base of his throat and the hint of his chest hair.

Looking at him standing there in the dim light of the hallway, your mind feels entirely split. Part of you thinks he looks like an absolute angel that has fallen from grace. The other part of you knows better — he looks like sin itself, wrapped up in a ruined suit, waiting to drag you down with him.

Suddenly, the reality of your appearance hits you. You are wearing nothing but a thin sheet of silk, your hair is wild around your face, and your skin is completely bare of makeup. You feel incredibly exposed beneath his gaze. 

Instinctively, your arms wrap tightly around your own waist, a defensive wall built to protect yourself from whatever he’s bringing to your door.

"Mr. Lockwood," you say, your voice cutting through the silence of the corridor. You try to sound cold, distant, and professional, but there’s an undeniable edge of playfulness underneath it. "Are you lost? Did you forget the way to your own bedroom?"

Sean doesn’t answer immediately. 

Instead, a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face, and he bites his lower lip just enough to hide the full width of his grin. His dark eyes don’t stay on your face. 

Slowly, deliberately, his gaze travels down from your tangled hair, over the exposed skin of your collarbone, down the length of your silk robe, and all the way back up to meet your eyes. It’s a thorough, heavy analysis that makes your skin flush with sudden heat.

He lifts his right hand, which had been hidden slightly behind his back. In it, he’s holding a green bottle of expensive champagne. It’s covered in condensation, large drops of icy water dripping down the glass and splashing onto the floor. In his left hand, he holds two crystal glasses, the stems clicked neatly between his fingers.

"I was wondering if you wanted to celebrate," Sean says. He shakes both of his hands gently, making the crystal glasses clink together with a soft, ringing sound.

You raise a single eyebrow, leaning your shoulder against the edge of the open door, refusing to let him in just yet. 

"Celebrate what, exactly? The party ended an hour ago, Sean. In case you didn’t notice, everyone has already gone to sleep."

He shrugs his broad shoulders, a completely relaxed, carefree gesture that irritates you just as much as it charms you. 

"Let’s celebrate life. Isn’t that enough of a reason?"

You roll your eyes dramatically at his ridiculous, empty answer. Yet, despite yourself, you can’t completely hide the small smile that tugs at the corner of your lips. 

To keep him from seeing how much he affects you, you bite the inside of your cheek, forcing your expression back into a hard, challenging look.

"What’s the matter, Sean?" you ask, your tone dipping into pure mockery. "Did Josephine reject you again? Is that why you’re wandering around the hallways at three in the morning like a sad, abandoned dog looking for a place to sleep?"

The lazy, confident smile on his face instantly falters. It doesn’t disappear completely, but the corners of his mouth tighten, and the warmth leaves his expression for a split second. Your words hit exactly where you wanted them to. 

Inevitably, his eyes flicker down the long hallway, turning toward the distant wing of the palace where Josephine’s luxury suite is located.

There is a brief, raw shadow in his eyes when he looks away — a flash of quiet pain, a bruise to his massive ego. It tells you everything you need to know. He had tried to be with her tonight. And she had turned him away, or perhaps she had simply chosen someone else with a higher title and a bigger bank account. Seeing that look in his eyes makes a sharp spike of jealousy and satisfaction twist in your stomach.

But as he turns his gaze back to you, something shifts in the air. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by a dark, intense focus. He looks at you with a hunger that makes your breath catch. 

There is something inside you — something loud, angry, and deeply desperate — that screams at you to act. You don’t want to be his second choice, but more than that, you want to completely erase Josephine from his mind. You want to make him forget her name, her face, and everything else. 

You want him to want you, right now, so intensely that he won’t be able to breathe.

Letting out a loud, dramatic sigh — as if letting him into your room is the absolute heaviest, most exhausting chore in the entire world — you step back from the door. You turn your back on him and begin walking slowly into the center of your room, leaving the door wide open behind you. 

It’s a clear, silent invitation. You are telling him exactly what you want without saying a single word.

A second later, you hear the sharp, distinct click of the door closing and locking behind him.

He understood perfectly. 

Within moments, the quiet space of your bedroom is completely invaded by his presence. The smell of the night air, the sharp scent of expensive alcohol, and the heavy, intoxicating fragrance of his cologne fill the room. 

You don’t even have to look back to know exactly where he is. You can feel the heat of his body, the rhythm of his footsteps walking slowly, steadily, right behind you.

You walk over to the massive king-sized bed and sit down lightly on the very edge of the mattress. As you settle into the sheets, you deliberately cross one leg over the other. The movement causes the thin silk of your robe to slide apart, revealing a long line of your bare thigh. It’s a calculated move, a subtle display of skin, and it does not go unnoticed.

Sean stops walking the exact moment your robe parts. His eyes lock onto your exposed leg, his throat moving as he swallows hard. A heavy silence fills the room for a few seconds before he clears his throat, breaking the spell. 

He steps over to the low coffee table in the center of the seating area, setting the two crystal glasses down with a quiet clink.

He places his palm over the cork of the champagne bottle. With a firm, practiced twist of his wrist, he forces the cork out.

Pop.

The loud, sudden sound echoes sharply against the high ceilings of the room. Even though you were expecting it, the noise makes you jump slightly, your shoulders twitching upward.

Sean lets out a soft, low chuckle at your reaction, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You roll your eyes at him again, but you can’t stop the genuine smile that spreads across your face this time. 

The tension between you is thick, but it feels familiar, like a game you have played a thousand times before.

He lifts both glasses from the table, his movements slow and steady. He walks over to the bed, stepping directly into your personal space until his shiny leather shoes are nearly touching your bare toes. 

He leans down slightly, extending one of the glasses toward you.

You stand up from the edge of the bed, rising to meet him face-to-face. As you reach out to take the crystal stem from his hand, you ensure your fingers brush deliberately against his. The skin-on-skin contact sends a sharp, electric jolt straight up your arm. 

Neither of you breaks contact. Your eyes are locked onto his dark, intense gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to show any weakness.

You raise your glass just a fraction of an inch between your faces. 

"To success," you say, your voice steady and smooth.

Sean’s eyes darken further at the word. A small, knowing smile touches his lips, and he nods his head once. 

"To success."

You bring the glass to your mouth, tilting it just enough to let the cold, crisp champagne wet your lips. You don’t drink much, keeping your eyes fixed on him over the rim of the glass.

Sean, however, doesn’t hesitate. He tilts his head back and takes a long, heavy swallow, his throat moving rhythmically as he finishes half the glass in one go.

He lowers the drink, letting out a hot, heavy breath. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, suddenly looking a bit restless. He clears his throat again, his fingers tightening around the fragile glass stem.

"You know," he begins, his voice dropping into a quieter, more serious tone. "I’ve been thinking..."

"About what?" you ask. You step past him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest as you walk over to the coffee table. You set your glass down on the wood, then turn around slowly, crossing your arms over your chest to look at him.

"About what you said to me earlier," Sean says. He turns around to face you completely, his expression intensely serious now. "About being in the perfect moment, with the perfect person... and how that’s the only way to truly achieve success."

You tilt your head to the side, pretending to be deep in thought, a playful, amused look on your face. 

"Did I say that? Wow. I must be far wiser than I look."

You say it with a clear laugh in your voice, treating it like a joke.

But Sean doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. The playful atmosphere in the room vanishes in an instant, replaced by an intensity so thick it feels hard to breathe. He stares at you, his eyes burning with a wild, hungry light. His knuckles turn white as he grips his champagne glass with immense force.

"I think this is the perfect moment," he says softly.

Slowly, deliberately, he begins to take a few steps toward you. His movements are smooth, predatory, and completely focused. He closes the distance between you until he’s standing right in front of you. 

He reaches out, his arm moving over your shoulder as he leans in to place his own glass on the coffee table behind you. The movement forces his chest to press almost entirely against yours. Your bodies are so close you can feel the radiating heat of his skin through your robe.

Your eyes inevitably drop to his lips. They’re still wet from the champagne, glistening in the dim light of the room. You can see the slight movement of his tongue as he wets them again.

"And am I the perfect person?" you whisper, your voice barely audible in the quiet room.

Sean doesn’t give you a direct verbal answer. 

Instead, his right hand moves with incredible speed and firmness, wrapping tightly around your waist. He pulls you forward, locking your hips against his. The sudden movement forces you to bring your hands up, placing them flat against his broad chest to keep your balance. Beneath your palms, you can feel his heart beating like a wild animal trapped in a cage — fast, hard, and loud.

His left hand rises slowly, his long fingers gently moving a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch is surprisingly soft, a sharp contrast to the tight, bruising grip on your waist. His palm settles against your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You look up at him, forcing a slight frown onto your face, though your heart is racing just as fast as his. 

"So, is this what this is about, Sean? Are you just going to use me to get what you want? To reach your precious success?"

"Can I?" he whispers back against your skin. His hot, alcohol-scented breath hits your face, making your senses reel.

"What?" your gaze defies him

"Use you," he murmurs, his eyes dropping to your mouth.

The two words completely steal the air right out of your lungs. For a second, you are entirely speechless, your mind spinning. 

To hide how deeply his words have shaken you, you force a soft, mocking laugh from your throat. You shake your head, looking away to the side, trying to regain your control.

"You are completely out of your mind, Sean—"

Before you can even finish the thought, before you can figure out how to push him away or tell him to go to hell, his hand moves from your cheek down to your jaw. His fingers grip your jawline firmly, stopping your movement. 

With a sudden, heavy pull, he twists your face back to him and slams his lips hard against yours.

Any thought completely vanishes from your mind the second his lips touch yours.

Your hands, which had been resting flat against his chest to keep him away, instinctively ball into fists, grabbing the fabric of his white shirt and his open tuxedo jacket. You pull him closer, burying yourself in his warmth, trying to eliminate any remaining space between your bodies.

The kiss isn’t sweet. It isn’t gentle or polite. 

It’s a hungry, violent collision of lips and teeth. It’s a kiss born from a deep, aching need for attention, for power, for success, and for glory. Both of you are fighting for dominance, each trying to impose your will on the other in your own way. 

He sucks at your upper lip, and you pull him closer by the hair, refusing to give an inch, matching his intensity.

His mouth slides away from your lips, moving down the sensitive line of your jaw, his breathing incredibly ragged. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing hot, wet kisses against your skin as he moves up toward your ear.

"Let me be with you..." he whispers, his voice shaking slightly against your skin. He presses a hard kiss just beneath your ear. "Tonight... every single night... forever."

Each word is punctuated by another heavy, desperate kiss against your throat.

You tilt your head far back, resting it against his shoulder to give him completely free access to your neck.

His hands slide down from your waist, his palms moving over the smooth silk of your robe until they reach your backside. His fingers dig firmly into your flesh, squeezing tightly, lifting you slightly off your feet as he presses his hard arousal directly against your lower abdomen.

A soft, broken groan escapes your lips, a sound that is half a sigh and half a moan. A wave of pure heat takes complete control of your body.

You begin to move, forcing him backward. Your steps are slow but determined, driving him across the room until the back of his knees hits the hard edge of the mattress.

With quick, efficient movements, your fingers fly to the buttons of his white shirt. You push the tuxedo jacket and the shirt off his broad shoulders, letting the expensive clothes slide down his arms and drop carelessly onto the floor.

You trace the lines of his muscles, your fingertips moving through hair on his chest, traveling down over his abdomen until they reach the stiff waistband of his dress pants.

You lift your eyes, meeting his gaze in the dim light. What you see there makes your heart stop.

There is an expression in Sean’s eyes that is completely indescribable. It’s a look of absolute, terrifying devotion. In your entire life, no one has ever looked at you that way. Not the people who claim to be your biggest fans, not the executives who kiss your hand at parties, not the lovers who have filled your bed in the past, and certainly not the people who spend their days talking loudly about your immense talent. 

None of them. Nobody. Ever. 

Sean is looking at you as if you are the only source of light in a completely dark universe.

Before you can lose yourself in the realization, before you can regain control of your emotions, Sean moves. He grabs the back of your neck, his fingers tangling deep into your messy hair, and pulls your mouth back down to his.

With a sudden, powerful shift of his weight, he twists your bodies. Before you can even figure out how he did it, you are falling backward onto the soft mattress. You catch yourself on your forearms, your back arching slightly off the sheets, while Sean moves instantly to position himself directly over you.

He drives one of his heavy, fabric-covered knees directly between your thighs. The movement sinks deep into the soft mattress, forcing your legs wide apart and creating a sharp, heavy friction directly against your most sensitive area. The sudden rush of pleasure makes a loud, high-pitched gasp escape your throat. Sean moves instantly to silence the sound, slamming his mouth over yours and swallowing the noise whole.

One of his large hands moves up, wrapping firmly around your left breast through the thin silk of the robe. He squeezes gently, his thumb moving with a slow, deliberate stroke over your nipple, which is already completely hard and erect beneath the fabric. 

Slowly, without breaking the deep kiss, his other hand travels down to your waist. He finds the loose knot of your silk belt and pulls it free with a single, sharp tug. He slides his warm palm directly beneath the open fabric, touching your bare skin for the first time.

"Tell me," Sean whispers fiercely against your lips, his mouth moving down to trace your jawline before returning to press a hard kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Tell me right now."

"Tell you... what?" you gasp out, your hands gripping his bare shoulders as his knee moves again, rubbing heavily against you.

"Tell me you’re going to make me the best actor in the world," he demands, his voice a low, rough growl.

You let out a frustrated, needy groan at his words. The man is completely obsessed with his ambition, even now. But before you can give him a real answer, he silences you again with another deep, bruising kiss.

"Tell me," he commands again, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Say it."

"You already are..." you pant out between heavy breaths, your head rolling back onto the pillow. "You’re already... the best actor."

You aren’t just saying it to please him; your mind is completely fuzzy from the pleasure. 

His knee is continuing to rub steadily against your center. The thin, wet silk of your night robe is the only thing separating his trousers from your skin, because you got rid of your underwear the second you took off your gala dress an hour ago. Every movement of his leg sends a wave of intense electricity straight to your brain.

"Don’t lie to me," Sean growls, his teeth biting lightly at the soft skin of your neck, making you shiver violently.

"I’m not... lying to you!" you shout back, your voice tight with a mixture of pleasure and sudden irritation at his stubbornness.

Instead of answering, Sean grips your hips with immense force. His fingers dig into your skin as he pulls your body down the mattress with a sudden, heavy jerk, bringing you right to the very edge of the bed. The sudden movement makes a loud sound of surprise fly from your lips.

Sean drops off the bed, landing on his knees on the floor right between your wide-open legs. In that position, with your robe completely pushed aside, he looks down and notices the complete lack of underwear. He realizes instantly that there is absolutely no fabric covering your most sensitive, wet area.

His dark eyes, now looking almost completely black in the shadows, snap up to meet yours.

"You are so beautiful," he whispers, his voice shaking with genuine awe.

"Sean—"

Before you can even say his name, before you can tell him to move or to hurry up, his hands grip the insides of your thighs. He pushes your legs even wider apart, pinning them down. He leans forward, burying his face between your legs, and begins to leave a trail of wet, heavy kisses and sharp bites along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

You let out a loud, unrestrained moan, your eyes closing tightly as you abandon any attempt to stay upright. You fall completely flat onto your back against the mattress, your fingers clutching the expensive sheets.

The moment his hot breath hits your center, he stops for a single, agonizing second. He looks up at you one final time, his eyes burning, before his face completely disappears between your legs.

Your teeth clamp down hard on your lower lip to keep from screaming. Your hands fly to his head, your fingers tangling desperately into his messy hair, pulling him closer, holding him against you.

His tongue is incredibly warm and wet, exploring every single inch of your skin with an intense, steady rhythm. His lips wrap gently but firmly around one side of your outer folds, sucking lightly before moving to the other side. 

As he slides lower, the bridge of his nose rubs heavily against your clitoris. The sudden, intense contact makes your entire spine arch completely off the mattress, your body trembling from the shock of pleasure.

You can feel the slight movement of his cheeks — you can’t see him, but you know with absolute certainty that he’s smiling against your wet skin. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

One of his large hands presses down firmly on your right thigh, holding it wide open so you can’t close your legs around him, while his other hand settles flat against your lower stomach, pressing down slightly to anchor you to the bed.

You yank on his hair, a silent, desperate gesture of approval. Sean lets out a deep, vibrating groan into your skin, a sound that travels straight through your body, making your core tighten around his tongue.

He focuses his attention entirely on that single, electric button of nerves. His tongue moves over it with incredible speed and perfect, heavy pressure. It was clear that Sean is going to be exceptionally good at this, too. 

He changes the rhythm, his mouth creating a perfect vacuum as he suctions down on you with the exact amount of force you need. 

The pleasure is so intense you literally see bright spots of light behind your closed eyelids.

"S-Sean..." his name tears out of your throat, sounding incredibly broken and embarrassed.

But Sean seems to absolutely love the sound of his name in your mouth. Hearing you cry out makes him increase both the speed of his tongue and the pressure of his mouth, understanding exactly what your body is begging for.

It doesn’t take long at all. Within minutes, the tension in your body tightens into a hard, unbearable knot. 

You have to bite your own wrist to keep from screaming his name at the top of your lungs. You are terrified that the entire Agnelli family, and all their wealthy guests down the hall, will hear exactly what is happening inside your room. 

With a final, violent shudder, your body explodes into a heavy, pulsing climax.

Slowly Sean pulls his face away from you. He stands up. His chin and his lips are completely soaked with your wetness and his own saliva. He doesn’t look bothered by it at all; he simply runs his hand through his face and wipes his mouth dry. 

You push yourself up, sitting up on your elbows, your breathing heavy. You reach down and push your silk robe completely off your shoulders, letting it slide under your hips. You are completely naked now, sitting on the bed.

You look up, and your eyes connect with his once again. Sean reaches out, his fingers finding your jawline, sliding delicately up to cup your cheek.

While he holds your face, you stand up.

Your hands move down his bare chest and you slide your palms over his stomach, moving down past his waist until your fingers find the massive, heavy bulge trapped inside his dress trousers. 

It’s completely impossible for him to hide his arousal now. He’s incredibly hard, thick, and large. The moment your palms begin to massage him through the black fabric, his jaw tightens, and his teeth sink deep into his lower lip as a sharp gasp escapes him.

Your fingers move to the button of his trousers. You undo it slowly, teasingly, before pulling the zipper down. You reach inside, grabbing the waistband of his underwear along with his pants, and push both garments down his thighs.

The moment he’s free from the tight fabric, his heavy, thick member bounces outward against his lower stomach. You can see a small, clear drop of pre-cum glistening at the very tip of his length.

Despite how much you want him, you don’t touch him with your hands just yet. Instead, you lean forward, your lips approaching his lower abdomen. You press a series of slow, wet kisses across his stomach, your tongue darting out to lick his skin. Sean lets out a loud, guttural growl, his head tossing far back as his hands fly up to grip his own face in pleasure.

You look back up into his eyes, keeping your gaze steady. Slowly, you wrap your fingers around the base of his shaft, your grip firm and warm.

Sean’s breath hitches. He reaches down, his fingers tangling tightly into your hair, holding you in place. You look at him with pure intensity, and just as you are about to take him into your mouth, you stick your tongue out and slowly, deliberately lick the drop of wetness from the very tip of his member.

You look up at him through your lashes and flash a sharp, wicked smile. 

Instead of taking him into your mouth completely, you let go of him. You begin to crawl backward across the massive bed, never once breaking contact with his eyes.

Sean stands frozen for a single second, his mind trying to process the tease. 

Then, his eyes narrow with a dangerous, hungry light. 

He understands the game perfectly. 

He drops his knees onto the mattress, balancing himself, and begins to crawl after you, tracking your movements like a predator cornering its prey.

You lay your naked body completely flat against the expensive, dark bedspread, your arms opening wide. Sean moves instantly, sliding his body directly between your wide-open legs, his chest hovering just inches above yours.

He stares down at you, his eyes completely dark, his breathing heavy and hot against your face. His hands move slowly over the curves of your waist and your hips, his touch filled with a strange, deep reverence.

With a final, heavy look that says absolutely everything, he aligns his length with your center. You can feel the thick, blunt tip of his member beginning to push slowly, steadily, inside your wet warmth.

Your fingernails instantly dig deep into the hard muscles of his shoulders. You grip him tightly, needing something to hold onto, needing an anchor to keep you from losing your mind as he fills you up.

It’s completely impossible to keep your back from lifting off the bed. Your spine arches violently as the sheer size of him stretches you open, filling you completely until there’s absolutely no space left between you.

You expect him to slam his mouth over yours to quiet your noises, but he doesn’t. He keeps his upper body lifted on his hands, his eyes glued to your face. He watches every single flicker of your eyelids, every twist of your lips, completely fascinated by the fact that he’s the one making you feel this way.

He drives his hips forward one final time, burying himself to the absolute base, his pelvis slamming hard against yours. Both of you freeze in that position for a long, agonizing moment, your breath catching in your throats.

"Are you okay?" Sean whispers, his voice trembling with an intensity that surprises you.

You can’t even speak. You simply nod your head against the pillow, your lips parting as a soft sigh escapes you. Sean takes the opportunity to lean down, his mouth capturing your upper lip, sucking on it gently as he begins to move.

The rhythm starts out slow, but it builds with terrifying speed. His hips begin to slam against yours with a steady, punishing pace that sends a wave of heat straight through your lower body. Every single thrust is perfect. He enters you completely and pulls out almost to the tip, hitting the exact right spot inside you every single time. It feels so good it makes you lose all sense of time and place.

"My star," Sean gasps out against your mouth. "My beautiful, perfect star."

"God, Sean..." you scream out, your hands sliding up to grip his hair.

"You are perfect. Absolutely perfect," he groans.

He reaches down with his left hand, grabbing the back of your right thigh and lifting your leg high, opening you up even deeper. His right hand flies to your jaw, his fingers gripping your face tightly, forcing you to look directly into his eyes.

"Swear it to me," he whispers fiercely, his words broken by a loud, deep growl as he thrusts into you again. You can feel the muscles of your walls tightening around him, squeezing him with immense force. "Swear to me that you’ll let me stay beside you. Always. Every single day. Forever."

Hearing the word forever brings a sudden flash of reality back to your mind. You look at his desperate, sweating face, and despite the intense pleasure, you slowly shake your head on the pillow.

Sean’s movements instantly stutter. His smooth rhythm hitches, and his tight grip on your jaw loosens slightly. A deep, confused frown wrinkles his forehead.

"Why not—"

Before he can even finish the question, before he can let his ego get in the way, you cut him off.

"Show me," you pant out, your eyes flashing with absolute fire. "Show me that you actually deserve it."

You take advantage of his split second of confusion and doubt. With a sudden, powerful movement, you place your hands flat against his chest and push him hard. Sean doesn’t fight it; his body rolls over to the side, falling flat onto his back against the mattress.

Before he can even move, you scramble across the bed and climb directly on top of him. You sit on his thighs, your hands reaching down to grab his hard shaft, aligning the tip with your wet center without losing a single second.

"Is this what you want, Sean?" you ask, your voice dipping into a dangerous, challenging tone as you look down at him.

Sean nods his head desperately against the sheets, his hands reaching up to grip your waist with immense force.

Slowly, deliberately, you lower your hips. His thick length slides perfectly, deeply inside you, the sensation so intense that Sean’s head instantly tosses back against the mattress, a loud, agonizing groan tearing from his throat.

"And if I say yes..." you begin, starting to move your hips in a slow, torturous circle above him, "are you actually going to be a good boy for me?"

"I’ll be good," Sean groans out, his eyes closed tightly as his fingers dig bruises into your hips. "I’ll be so good for you."

The wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding begins to echo loudly through the quiet, high-ceilinged room of the Agnelli palace. Sean’s hands tighten on your body, his hips lifting off the bed to meet every single one of your downward movements, helping you ride him, guiding your pace.

"I’ll be the best," he gasps out, his chest rising and falling violently.

It takes only a few more heavy, chaotic movements. You can see the sudden, sharp change in his face — the way his jaw tightens, the way his breath stops. 

“I’ll make you the greatest of all time” your words leave your mouth with a soft moan.

And those words are enough to finish him. 

His hands hold your hips tight as his own hips rise to trust one final time inside you before you feel his hot and tick cum fill you completely.

A second later, your own body tightens into a final, massive wave of completion. 

You fall forward, your sweaty, exhausted body collapsing flat against his bare chest as both of you release everything into the night; an his large arms wrap loosely, tiredly around your back, holding you tight against him as the sound of your ragged, heavy breathing fills the dark room.

With a slow, careful movement, you slide off his torso, rolling onto your side on the damp mattress, feeling his hot fluid sliding between your legs. 

Sean lets out a low, guttural sigh as the weight of your body leaves him. He doesn’t try to pull you back. Instead, he keeps staring up at the dark ceiling, his eyes reflecting the pale moonlight filtering through the glass.

You prop yourself up on your elbow, your tangled hair falling over your face as you look down at him. 

"So," you whisper, your voice rough and dry. "Did you get what you came for, Mr. Lockwood?"

Sean’s jaw tightens in the dark. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He swallows hard, his throat moving rhythmically before he finally turns his gaze to meet yours. The wild, hungry intensity is gone, replaced by a quiet, brooding shadow that you can’t quite read.

With a heavy sigh, he shifts his weight, turning onto his side to face you fully. He reaches out, his fingers hesitant before they finally brush against your bare shoulder, tracing the smooth line of your skin down to your elbow. His touch is light, almost apologetic, a silent truce in the dark.

You don’t say more. You simply lay your head back down on the pillow, turning your back to him. 

A moment later, you feel the heavy warmth of his body sliding closer, his chest pressing gently against your back, his arm looping around your waist to pull you against him. It feels comfortable, it feels safe, but the underlying tension remains. 

You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion take over, drifting off to sleep with the smell of his cologne and your shared sweat filling your senses.

The morning light doesn’t arrive softly. It breaks through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains like sharp golden needles, piercing straight through your closed eyelids and forcing you back into the waking world.

Your head wakes up with a dull, punishing throb behind your eyes — the inevitable receipt of the excesses from the night before.

For a few hazy, comfortable seconds, you keep your eyes closed, suspended in the warmth of the blankets. Your skin still feels incredibly sensitive, tingling with the memory of a heavy, burning touch. 

Instinctively, you shift your weight, extending your arm across the wide bed. Your fingers reach out, searching for the firm, radiating warmth of Sean’s bare torso. You expect your hand to land on his broad shoulders, or to hear a low, sleepy growl of protest as he pulls you back against his chest.

But your hand finds nothing but smooth, flat fabric.

Your fingers press down onto the mattress. The sheet beneath your palm is completely smooth, completely flat, and entirely cold. There’s no trapped body heat left in the fabric.

Your eyes snap open.

You sit up quickly, a sudden spike of adrenaline cutting straight through your morning hangover. The heavy coverlet slides down your bare chest as you look around the massive suite.

"Sean?"

Your voice sounds incredibly small in the vast, quiet space. It bounces off the high walls, returning to you as nothing but a hollow echo.

There’s no answer. The only sound in the room is the distant, rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the wall.

A bitter, cynical smile touches your lips as you swing your legs out of bed. You look down at the floor near the edge of the mattress. His clothes are entirely gone. The wrinkled white shirt, the expensive tuxedo jacket, the dark dress trousers — he has gathered every single item in the absolute dark, moving silently like a thief in the night. 

Sean thought he could play his little games of ambition and escape. 

He thought he could use your body to reach his own glory and then slip away before the sun revealed his weakness. 

But as you stand up and tie your silk robe tightly around your waist, you look at the two empty glasses on the table and smile.

He has forgotten one crucial detail: the performance is over, but you are still the one holding the script.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

⭑ para val, te amo⭑

after finishing school, you thought you couldn’t feel more miserable. it felt as if everyone was making their own way in life: your friends from church were getting married, some classmates were moving to other states to study. but you were stuck here now, and even the most irrelevant thing outside your usual routine caught your attention.

the days had been so long. it was like an endless cycle. you couldn’t rely on your friends from church anymore to make the services more enjoyable. you didn’t feel guilty at all for being like this, for feeling bored, for skipping some days and lying about having a cold, or for having thoughts lately that you wouldn’t share with anyone else, even if they begged you to.

and the thoughts were louder this time. not because your situation had changed that much, but because of someone…

you remembered very well the first time you saw him.

dark chocolate hair, big hazel eyes, and hands so large they could hold more than four things at once. you bit your lip instinctively, then quickly shook your head, just in case somebody noticed. as soon as he dropped everything in front of you, you jumped, not realizing he was standing that close.

a faint scent of freshly smoked cigarettes and mint filled the room. you didn’t like people who smoked, nor had you ever found it attractive, until now, imagining the guy in front of you with one resting between his fingers.

“do you work here?” he spoke roughly. you felt ashamed of yourself for the simple thought of him seeing you blush just for him in this way. even more ashamed if someone could read your mind right now.

you wet your lips before talking. he noticed but you chose to ignore it for your own good. “it seemed like it,” you pointed at your apron and grabbed your pen and paper to start writing the count.

he watched you move around to look for the prices, counting the items, reading the type of product. you were doing your best to keep your attention on your job and your eyes off his, but he talked.

“did you just move here? didn’t see you around.” a little smirk left his mouth, and when you looked up you noticed how tight his white t-shirt was and the huge dark stains all over it. then you connected the dots: he possibly worked in that old filling station next to the road. it was a little too far so it made sense you never saw him before.

“i did yes, just a couple of days, i mean weeks, same—” you never felt so stupid in your whole life. “makes sense then,” he said. you put all the things in a bag after he paid and followed his way until his car, couldn’t help but look down at his jeans pressing against his thighs and his huge back muscles moving as he walked holding the bags.

you observed him put all the bags in the backseat, wondering how bored you could be to be watching every movement, flexing arms, the veins of his hands, every detail.

but it wasn't just a fantasy of the moment. you had flirted with some boys customers before, at least when you knew the owner of the shop wasn't watching, because you bet all your wage that she would tell your mother as soon as she could. she found nothing interesting except other people’s lives.

that night you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the little cross above your headboard catching the moonlight. you whispered a quiet prayer for strength, but your mind kept drifting back to his hands, the way his jeans sat on his hips, the easy confidence in his smile. you knew better, you had been raised on sermons. still, the next time he came in, and the time after that, you found yourself looking forward to the sound of the bell above the door.

“when you finish your shift?” you didn’t know what to respond. he opened his eyes wider and then you reacted. “oh, my shift? usually round 6:00.”

“so, in 30 minutes,” he replied. you nodded after seeing the clock on the wall.

“can i borrow your pen?” you gave it to him without questioning, his hand lingering on yours.

he left a note above the oil bottle on the table, and left chewing the mint gum as if nothing happened.

“see you tomorrow behind the store.”

your mind crossed a million thoughts at the same time. you had had some short secret relationships during high school, but nothing lasted because of your parents or your being scared of being caught. but this time felt different. he was different. you felt curious about him. did he really find you attractive? or was it just a stupid joke? should you have been scared?

unfortunately, all these questions didn’t appear, because you waited there playing with the edges of your apron until he appeared, in a brown letter jacket and hair fluffy as usual, but that time wet and styled as if he had just come out of the shower.

and you would say unfortunately because once he stopped next to you, leaning on the wall at the back of the shop, smirking and not too close but close enough for you to smell his cologne, you knew you were in big trouble.

“i’m steve, steve harrington. w’bout you?” he asked, then grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it in front of you. you wondered if you had ever seen someone more attractive in your life.

all of it started with little chats. he asked about your day and talked little about him. it seemed like he didn’t really like telling you about himself, about his family, his old relationships. you slowly started noticing how he tilted his head before answering your questions.

every warning bell in your head grew quieter the more he looked at you like you were the only thing worth paying attention to in this suffocating town.

but then, the chats began getting longer. you were well aware of how problematic it could be for you to be seen for extra hours outside of your house but the excuse of staying longer to cover your nonexistent shift partner convinced your mom long enough.

when you realized, you were involved in something bigger than you two, bigger than your family, your beliefs; but it didn’t matter, not when it felt like this.

-

the old floorboards in your room creaked softly under steve’s weight as he climbed through the window, careful not to make too much noise. you had left it unlocked like always, heart racing every time until you saw his broad shoulders ease through the frame.

the mercury was parked far down the road so no one would notice, and he had walked the rest of the way through the back fields in the dark.

he smelled like tobacco and that faint mint he chewed to cover it. his faded denim vest hung open over his bare chest, hair messy from the wind and his hands running through it. he didn’t say anything at first, just crossed the room and pulled you into a hungry kiss, walking you backward until your thighs hit the edge of your bed.

your father had warned you about boys like him, especially ones with his reputation, but none of it mattered when he looked at you the way he did.

you were wearing the thin white lingerie pajama dress he liked, the one that barely reached mid-thigh and clung to every curve. his hands slipped under the hem, rough palms sliding up your bare skin as he pushed the fabric higher but didn't take it off.

he pressed you down onto the old mattress, the springs sighing quietly beneath you. one of his hands braced beside your head while the other gripped your thigh, holding you open. “see what you do to me, baby,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low and rough, “missed you so much.”

you felt him then, sliding against your slick heat in slow, teasing strokes that made your legs tremble. he rocked gently at your entrance, barely pressing forward before pulling back, eyes dark and locked on the place where your bodies almost joined. his free hand drifted upward, palming your chest through the thin fabric of your dress, thumb circling until your breath hitched. then he slid his thumb between your parted lips. you sucked lightly, whispering his name like a secret you weren’t supposed to speak.

“you like that?” he breathed, fingers moving with steady, maddening purpose while he kept teasing you with those shallow rocks of his hips. the pleasure coiled tight and fast, too much and not enough. your fingers dug into his shoulders as he finally sank deeper, steady and overwhelming, the delicate dress still bunched around your waist.

his lips were red from kissing and sucking at your chest through the fabric, leaving faint damp spots on the cloth. you bit his shoulder to stay quiet, breathing in sweat and smoke and the faint trace of mint. when the tension in him finally snapped, he pulled back, stroking himself until he spilled warm across your chest and chin in heavy pulses. then he collapsed against you, face buried in your neck, murmuring soft praises against your skin.

afterward you lay tangled together, the room quiet except for the slowing rhythm of your breathing. his fingers idly traced the delicate cross necklace resting between your breasts, twirling the small silver pendant around his fingertip with that faint smirk still tugging at his lips. you watched the moonlight cut across his face and felt the question rise before you could stop it.

and you knew this was the time when things started to get complicated. when your mind started to go faster than you wanted, and your heart beat faster with fear.

fear of losing, fear of feeling that maybe this, whatever thing between him and you was happening, could end.

and when you wanted to regret, to decide to put your words aside and just close your eyes and sleep, you whispered without thinking.

“steve… what are we doing?” voice barely there. “i mean, where is this going?”

he went still. the easy warmth in his body cooled in an instant. he shifted, pulling his arm back, eyes flicking toward the window like he was already calculating the distance. “don’t start that,” he said, low and flat. “you know what this is.”

the words landed heavy. you felt the familiar twist in your stomach, sharper now. regret bloomed fast, but underneath it something hungrier refused to flinch. she takes what he gives her, you thought. even if it’s only pieces. even if it leaves you starving after.

“sorry,” you said quickly, reaching for his wrist before he could move away. “stay. please,” almost holding back tears until a sigh of resignation left his lips. he dropped his jeans where they were.

“lock the door. no one will know if you leave in the morning.”

he looked at you for a long second, something unreadable in his eyes. then he stood up, and turned the lock with a quiet click. when he came back to the bed he didn’t say anything else, just pulled you against his chest like before. you curled into him, face pressed to the warm skin of his neck.

part of you hated how easily you folded. part of you already ached knowing this couldn’t last. but lying there wrapped in his arms, the cross cool against your skin and his heartbeat steady under your cheek, you let yourself have it anyway. at least one more day. at least this night you could sleep like this, pretending the morning wouldn’t pull him away again.