Isabella Hart knew better than to flirt with fire. But the problem was—fire had flirted back.
Three days.
That's how long it had been since the rooftop. Since the encounter that kept replaying in her mind like a forbidden melody she couldn't silence. She hadn't seen Marcus Vale since that night at Nocturne, but he haunted her thoughts like a ghost in silk and smoke. The memory of his voice curled around her spine, dark and dangerous.
And yet, she still went to the gallery.
Not by choice.
Victor had asked her to deliver a portfolio of private acquisitions to an anonymous buyer—an absurd request, really. Victor didn't usually trust anyone else with that kind of discretion. But apparently, she was now his person for things he didn't want traced.
The gallery was tucked away in SoHo. Modern. Minimalist. A steel-and-glass affair with high ceilings and silence that seemed curated like the art itself. White walls. Dark lighting. Expensive echoes.
She hated how beautiful it was.
The receptionist gave her a name—Suite 4B. No interruptions—and Isabella made her way past tall installations of glass and wire, portfolios clutched under one arm, heels silent against the concrete floor.
The moment she opened the suite's door, she knew she'd made a mistake.
He was waiting.
Marcus Vale.
Leaning against a leather sofa like he owned the oxygen in the room.
Her lungs forgot how to function.
"You've got to be kidding me," she said.
He smiled. "Is that any way to greet a client?"
"You're Victor's buyer?"
"Surprise."
She stepped inside, slowly, like a mouse trying not to wake the panther. "You set this up."
"Only the meeting." His eyes dragged over her like silk. "The rest? Pure coincidence."
Isabella dropped the portfolio on the glass table with more force than necessary. "There. Enjoy."
"You're not even going to show me what's inside?"
"Not part of my job description."
He stepped closer. "Pity. I was hoping for a little conversation."
"You don't need conversation. You need a therapist."
Marcus chuckled, and the sound wrapped around her ribs like velvet rope. "I tried therapy once. Got bored."
"You're not supposed to enjoy it."
"Then I did it wrong."
She took a careful step back. He took a deliberate step forward. Their energy was oil and matchsticks.
"This is harassment," she said, trying not to let her voice waver.
"No, Isabella. This," he said, voice dropping like a blade, "is pursuit."
Her spine straightened. "I'm not interested."
"That's not what your eyes said on the rooftop."
She swallowed. "I was curious. Not interested."
"You're lying. Badly."
She hated him. She hated his confidence, his arrogance, the way he knew exactly how to push her off balance.
But most of all—she hated that he was right.
Marcus took the portfolio, flipping through it like it was nothing. She turned to leave.
"I know what Victor's doing," he said suddenly.
She paused. "What?"
"He's grooming you. Turning you into a weapon."
Her blood went cold.
"You think you're special to him?" Marcus said, his tone casual, almost bored. "You're not. You're a tool. Smart. Beautiful. Disposable."
She turned slowly, eyes blazing. "And what would you use me for?"
Marcus didn't blink. "I'd use you up."
Her breath caught.
"I'd ruin you," he added, stepping closer, "and make you love every second of it."
She slapped him.
The crack echoed across the gallery like thunder.
His face turned slightly from the impact, but when he looked back at her—he was smiling. Blood at the corner of his lip. Eyes gleaming like a man who'd just discovered a new addiction.
"Now that," he said, licking his lip, "was interesting."
"You're a monster," she breathed.
"I've been called worse."
"You should be in prison."
"I've owned prisons."
She shook her head, furious at herself—for the way her hand still tingled, for the heat pooling low in her stomach.
Marcus's voice dropped to a whisper. "Tell Victor you delivered the files. Tell him I was polite. Tell him you didn't stay long."
"I won't lie for you."
"You already are."
She slammed the door behind her without another word.
But her hands didn't stop shaking until she got home.
Victor stared at her for a long time when she told him about the meeting. He didn't ask what happened. He didn't need to.
He knew.
"You should've said no," he said finally.
"You asked me to go," she replied, her tone tight.
"I didn't know he'd be there."
"You don't control him."
"I try to."
She hesitated. "Who is he, really?"
Victor looked away. "A mistake I never stopped paying for."
That night, Isabella sat on her bed, legs crossed, fingers drumming against her knee. She hated how Marcus's words lingered in her mind. How he got under her skin like ink beneath the surface.
She was smart. She was strong. But every woman had a blind spot.
What scared her most... was the feeling that he had already found hers.
Four days later, her phone lit up with an unknown number.
> You forgot your earring.
She blinked.
Her earrings were both in her jewelry box.
She replied:
> Wrong number.
The reply came instantly.
> You wore pearls the night we met. You left one on the gallery floor. Come get it.
She stared at the screen for a full minute.
Then she did something even she didn't understand.
She put on lipstick.
The location was a private lounge near the pier. Not a place listed online. Not a place you could stumble across. Marcus Vale was at the bar when she walked in, spinning a single pearl between his fingers like a coin.
"Drink?" he asked.
"I'm not staying."
He handed her the pearl. "I could've mailed it. But I wanted to see you again."
"Why?"
"Because no one's ever slapped me before and made me want a second round."
She swallowed. "You're insane."
"No," he said, voice low. "I'm interested."
They sat in tense silence for a moment. She hated herself for staying. For not throwing the pearl in his face. For not storming out.
But part of her wanted to understand him.
"You and Victor," Marcus said casually, "how long have you been sleeping together?"
She blinked. "We're not."
He raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"Yes."
Marcus leaned back, studying her. "Then what's keeping you there?"
She didn't answer.
"Let me guess," he murmured. "He saved you. Gave you a second chance. Now you're loyal."
"I'm grateful."
"There's a difference."
He tapped the rim of his glass. "Victor doesn't save people. He buys them."
"And you don't?"
"No," Marcus said, locking eyes with her. "I burn them."
She left again.
But she didn't block his number.
Not yet.
Isabella didn't realize what Victor was capable of until she found the tracker in her phone.
It was subtle. Hidden inside a backup setting. Something only someone very paranoid or very obsessed would install.
She confronted him that night in his office.
"You're tracking me."
Victor didn't flinch. "Yes."
"You don't deny it?"
"I don't apologize for it."
She stared at him, heart cracking. "Why?"
"Because I don't trust him. And I don't trust you around him."
"That's not your decision."
"I made it anyway."
She wanted to scream. Instead, she turned and walked out—head high, spine straight.
Victor didn't follow.
That night, she called Marcus.
Three rings.
Then:
"I was wondering when you'd break."
"I didn't break," she snapped. "I chose."
A pause. Then, softly—
"Where are you?"
She met him on the rooftop of a closed hotel. The city sprawled beneath them like a kingdom. Wind whipped through her hair, cold and cleansing.
Marcus stood with his back to her, smoking something that wasn't a cigarette. His suit jacket fluttered like a shadow.
"You came," he said.
"I needed air."
"You needed me."
She didn't deny it.
Not anymore.
"Victor's going to lose it," she said.
"Let him."
"I'm afraid of him."
Marcus turned to her, serious now. "You should be more afraid of me."
"I am," she whispered.
He stepped closer.
And this time—she didn't move away.
He kissed her like a warning.
Slow. Brutal. Beautiful.
Her world tilted.
Because she knew this wasn't the beginning of a love story.
It was the start of a disaster.
And she had never felt so alive.