The rain smeared the city lights into streaks of gold against the window of the penthouse. You hadn’t spoken in minutes, the weight of his presence like a blade balanced between your ribs.
“You’re getting married.” Charles’ voice was low, stripped of its usual charm. Not a question—an accusation.
You didn’t turn from the view. “You read the papers, then." A bitter chuckle. “Front page news. Tech heir wins Monaco’s most elusive heart.” The glass in his hand clinked as he set it down too hard. "Tell me it’s a cover."
Your fingers tightened around your own drink. "Why would it be?" "Because." A step closer. "You don’t love him."
"You don’t know that." "I know you." His breath ghosted over your bare shoulder as he stopped just behind you. "The way your pulse jumps when you lie. How you always—"
"Stop." You finally turned, finding his gaze darker than the storm outside. "Why are you really here, Charles?"
For a heartbeat, he looked almost vulnerable. "You left your necklace at the villa."
The lie was laughable. The villa had been emptied—and sold—months ago.
You reached for the delicate chain dangling from his fingers, but he caught your wrist instead.
"One word," he murmured, thumb tracing your frantic pulse. "Say it, and I burn his world to the ground. The wedding. The deal. All of it."
"Or," he continued, voice dropping to that velvet rasp that used to unravel you, "you walk out that door right now, and we pretend this never happened. But if you walk out that door tonight, we’re done. Really done.” His grip loosened.
A choice.