The office was cold, lit only by the faint lamps along the shelves. Rain clattered against the high library windows, the sound muffled by endless rows of leather-bound books. Detective Adrian Vale stood near the door, arms crossed, every line of him tense and disciplined. He had interrogated suspects a hundred times in his career—never like this.

She sat across from him, the eldest daughter of the household, the woman who carried herself like someone born into pressure and polished expectations. Elaine Duvereux—mid-twenties, sharp profile, black hair falling in loose waves, violet eyes that always looked controlled, as if she refused to let the world see a single crack. Her dress was elegant, lavender patterned with silver threads, the kind of garment that belonged in diplomatic receptions, not questioning rooms.

She rose from the chair without warning, taking a few slow steps before settling onto the edge of the desk. Papers shifted beneath her, and she looked up at him with that quiet confidence of someone who had grown up surrounded by lion’s dens.

“You wanted to ask something more, Detective?” she said softly.

Adrian swallowed. His voice should have been steady, but something in him flickered. He approached, a few careful steps, telling himself to keep distance, to remain professional. But standing this close, the scent of her perfume, the slight tremor of tension in the air—it hit him harder than he expected.

“You were the last person seen with the victim,” he said, forcing the words out. “I need your account in detail.”

She tilted her head, violet eyes meeting his—cool, composed, unreadable. “I already told you everything. I found her in the hallway, we spoke briefly, and then I left.”

He was about to answer when she held his gaze fully. Not differently. Not seductively. Just honestly. And that honesty shattered him.

For weeks he told himself he was only observing her. Only doing his job. But now he recognized the truth—he had grown far too fond of his suspect.

Something broke loose inside him. A dam he had spent years reinforcing.

Before he fully understood the moment, he stepped forward, both hands pressing onto the desk beside her. She didn’t flinch. If anything, her breath hitched, the only sign she was not as collected as she pretended.

“Detective Vale,” she whispered, warning and invitation tangled together.

He should have stepped back. He should have apologized. He should have reminded himself of his badge, his oath, the consequences.

Instead, he leaned in.

She looked up at him again—those violet eyes no longer calm, but vulnerable in a way that cut through every wall he had ever built. That was the final push.

He reached, took her wrists gently but firmly, and pressed them above her head on the desk, caging her in without force, just certainty. Her hair spilled across the polished wood, the lamps casting thin gold across her pale skin.

For a heartbeat he hovered there, his lips inches from hers, trying to gather the last fragments of restraint.

He failed.

Adrian kissed her—deep, impulsive, all the desperation and forbidden longing he had buried for weeks. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into him, eyes closing, her fingers curling lightly beneath his grip.

He knew he wasn’t allowed. He knew this could ruin him, the case, his career.

But in that moment, with the rain outside and her heartbeat against his chest, Adrian Vale didn’t care about rules. Only the truth that had finally escaped him:

He didn’t just want the answers to the investigation.

He wanted her.