Until my mascara runs down my face, until my makeup washes away, until every carefully curated illusion slides off my skin in rivers of black and gold. Until every lie I’ve told myself, every mask I’ve worn, dissolves into the puddle forming beneath my heels.
It feels like baptism.
It feels like drowning.
It feels like finally breathing.
When the family car rolls up beside me, tires hissing over wet pavement, I don’t even hesitate. I climb inside, soaking wet, trembling, my chest heaving with adrenaline, desperation, hope.
“Where to, Miss Sinclair?” my driver asks, professional and discreet, no questions, no judgment in his voice.
I pause, shivering violently, droplets of rain slipping from my skin onto the buttery leather seats. My pulse thrashes wildly against my throat, demanding I reconsider, but the words leave my mouth before I can think twice.
“The Langford,” I whisper, my voice strained, breaking. “West 57th.”
The driver nods without a word, eyes carefully blank. The privacy screen slides smoothly upward, sealing me into the quiet, shadowed backseat alone, exposed, nerves stripped bare beneath damp satin wrap dress and a reckless heartbeat.
I stare down at my lap, fingers twisting anxiously. He could slam the door in my face. He could sneer and tell me to fuck off, and I wouldn’t blame him. God, I’d deserve it.
But the need burning through my veins, raw, desperate, aching, won’t let me turn back. Because every secret, every broken piece of me is screaming for Kane. For his hands, his mouth, his cruelty that cuts so deep it bleeds truth. I crave his brutal honesty, the way he owns every inch of my body, mind, and soul.
My breath stays trapped in my chest, refusing to move until the Langford rises sharply into view, towering like a dark fortress against a storm-heavy sky. Jagged rivers of rain streak down tinted windows, blurring the world outside.
The car glides silently to a stop, engine humming gently, waiting.
Fear claws up my throat, fierce and paralyzing, but I shove it back. Determination fills the void left behind, hot and reckless, refusing to let me run again.
I step out into the rain, the storm lashing mercilessly against my bare skin, punishing me, soaking through my dress in seconds as I cross the sidewalk. The lobby attendant’s eyes widen in startled recognition, flickering uncertainly over my dripping hair and trembling frame, but he buzzes me up without a word.
I don’t care.
The elevator doors close, sealing me inside, alone, heart hammering wildly, pulse echoing in my ears. The numbers rise,slow, merciless…twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…each glowing digit ratcheting my anxiety tighter.
Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight...
I watch, helpless and desperate, as the numbers climb higher, each one pulling me closer to him. And then…
Ding.
The doors slide open to the penthouse floor.
My heels leave wet footprints behind me on his pristine marble hallway, evidence of my unraveling. My breathing hitches, lungs straining painfully with anticipation, fear, need, hope.
I freeze outside his door, heart pounding so violently it hurts, my chest heaving as panic and desperation battle inside me. My skin feels raw, every nerve frayed, twisted, tortured. My hand trembles in midair, inches from polished wood, and for a heartbeat I consider running away from this, away from him, away from every truth I’m terrified to face.
But I don’t run. Instead, I knock.
Once. Twice.
My breath stalls, shuddering helplessly in my chest as silence presses back at me, merciless, unbearable. I knock again, louder now, fist slamming against the door as urgency overtakes shame, as the ache inside me screams louder than the voice in my head begging me to leave.
Footsteps.
Steady. Controlled.
The lock clicks open, brutal and final, echoing like a bullet in my chest. The door swings inward, and the world stops spinning entirely.
Kane.
