It first started with a swimsuit.

You still remembered the day you found it—a sleek, black one-piece, folded neatly on your dresser with the tag still on. The front was modest enough, but the back… it was nothing but thin straps and bare skin.

You had stood there for a while, staring at it, wondering if maybe it was a mistake. Arden wasn’t exactly the type to shop for you—much less choose something this bold. He was the kind of man whose focus was always on business, whose affection was quiet to the point of invisibility.

Still, when you brought it up, holding it out for him to see, he barely looked away from his laptop.

“Wear it for the trip,” he said, in that cool, detached tone of his, as if the matter was already settled.

So you did. And maybe it was your imagination, but on that vacation, you caught him looking at you more than once. His eyes would linger for half a second too long when you walked ahead of him toward the pool. Or when you sat at the edge of the lounge chair, drying your hair, you’d feel the weight of his gaze on your bare shoulders before he turned away like nothing happened.

After that, the clothes kept coming...

A soft ivory blouse—open all the way down the spine. A wine-red gown that framed your bare back like it was meant for him to see. A midnight-blue dress with delicate straps that clung to your shoulders and revealed everything behind.

You told yourself it was coincidence. But the pattern was too deliberate. Too specific.

The night you truly noticed was during a business dinner. He had insisted you wear a deep emerald dress he’d bought a week earlier. From the front, it was elegant, refined—perfect for the event. But the back… the fabric dipped low, exposing every inch down to the small of your spine.

The evening went smoothly at first—polite conversation, wine glasses clinking, his colleagues making small talk. But as you stood beside him during a group discussion, you suddenly felt it—his hand, settling on your lower back.

Then, during one of those conversations, it happened. You were standing beside him, your back slightly turned toward the group, when you felt the subtle warmth of his hand resting on your lower back. A familiar gesture—he’d done it many times before. But this time… his hand didn’t just rest there.

You felt his fingers slowly trace along the edge of the fabric, deliberate and slow, before one finger slipped just barely underneath.

You glanced up at him, searching his face for a sign that this was intentional. But his expression was perfectly composed, his eyes fixed on the man speaking across from you. If not for the faintest curve at the corner of his lips, you might have believed it was all in your head.

“You’re distracting me,” you whispered, leaning slightly toward him.

“Good,” Arden murmured back, so softly you almost didn’t hear it.

His thumb brushed against your skin in a slow, almost lazy stroke before he withdrew his hand, just as the conversation shifted and someone else took the floor.

The rest of the night, you couldn’t stop feeling the ghost of his touch—warm, teasing, and impossibly possessive.

On the drive home, he was as calm and unreadable as ever, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the console. You didn’t say a word, but you knew—deep down—you understood.

Those clothes had never been an accident.