The eting room is a cathedral of hushed, corporate focus. The lights are dimd, the only glow coming from the projector casting graphs and market trends onto the screen.
A staff mber stands at the front, voice a steady monotone about demographic outreach and brand synergy.
Deniz sits beside , the picture of professional attention. His eyes are fixed on the presentation, his expression unreadable, calm.
The perfect assistant.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. A bright, secret warmth blooms in my chest, a direct contrast to the dry analysis filling the room.
Beneath the long table, shielded from view, my hand slowly seeks his. My fingers find his, curling around them.
He flinches, a tiny, almost imperceptible jolt. His head turns slightly, his dark eyes cutting to , wide with silent alarm.
I give him the faintest, most daring wink.
His eyes widen further. He tries to pull his hand back, a subtle tug of panic, but I don’t let go. I turn my gaze back to the presenter, my own face smoothing into a mask of polite, professional interest.
But under the table, I give his captive hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
A mont of frozen hesitation. Then, slowly, his resistance lts. His fingers uncurl, and then they lace with mine, warm and sure.
A secret, victorious smile blooms inside , brighter than any projector light.
This is ours. This tiny, illicit connection in a room full of people.
This is everything.
Then, the door to the eting room swings open.
The sound is a gunshot in the quiet.
The presenter’s voice cuts off. Every head in the room swivels toward the intrusion.
Moon Arden stands in the doorway, backlit by the hallway’s harsh fluorescence. He doesn’t need to speak; his presence is a shockwave that shatters the focused atmosphere.
His blue gaze, cold and intent, scans the room and lands directly on .
My secret smile dies instantly.
Why is he here?
His steps are calm, unhurried, as he walks across the room. The click of his dress shoes on the tile is the only sound.
Deniz watches him, confusion etching lines on his brow.
Moon stops beside my chair. He doesn’t look at anyone else.
"I need to talk with you," he says, his voice low but carrying in the dead silence.
I look away, breaking the unsettling eye contact, my voice tight with forced professionalism.
"As you can see, I’m in a eting. We can talk la—"
He doesn’t let finish.
His hand shoots out and closes around mine—the one still laced with Deniz’s under the table.
With a heavy, undeniable force, he yanks to my feet. My chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
My eyes fly wide. I’m standing, hauled upright like a doll. The sudden motion breaks the sweet, hidden connection.
Deniz’s hand is pulled from mine, the warmth replaced by a sudden, violent chill.
A collective, sharp intake of breath ripples through the room. Every eye is wide, staring.
Moon doesn’t pause. He turns, his grip on my wrist an iron manacle, and begins to walk, dragging with him.
I stumble, my free hand braced against the table for balance.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
I snap, anger and humiliation flooding my voice.
He doesn’t listen. Doesn’t slow. He just walks, a force of nature in a tailored suit, pulling out of the eting room, away from Deniz, and into the glaring, exposed light of the hallway.
The door swings shut behind us, muffling the stunned silence we leave in our wake.
The door to my office bursts open with a force that rattles the glass. Moon strides in, still dragging behind him like stubborn luggage. He shoves the door closed with his foot, the slam echoing in the sudden quiet.
Only then does he stop, spinning from behind to face him.
His blue eyes are a laser, fixed on . My own face is a storm of pure, unadulterated fury.
"Are you insane?!" I snarl, my voice raw.
He doesn’t answer. He just stares. I yank my wrist from his grasp with a violent twist and look down. The skin is already an angry, blotchy red.
"Why," he says, his voice a low, flat line, "are you ignoring ?"
I look up, my anger finding a sharper, more disbelieving edge.
"When have I ignored you? And if I did, why would you care so much? Ahh!"
The sound is pure frustration.
He just stares, a silent, infuriating statue.
I rub my temple, turning my face away, trying to wrestle my temper under control.
"Moon," I say, forcing my voice to be calm, cold. "Tell . What do you want from ? I am really, truly fed up with this behavior."
I glance back at him, my gaze sharp.
"We’re cousins. That doesn’t an you can drag around wherever you please. Is it because you enjoy it? Or is this just payback because I blackmailed you first?"
I et his gaze head-on, demanding an answer.
He gives none. Just silence.
I look at him again, really look this ti. Past the anger, past the performance.
And I see it.
His cheeks are flushed. Not with emotion, but with a deep, unhealthy heat. His eyes, usually so sharp, hold a glassy sheen.
Sothing is off.
Very off.
Before my thoughts can fully form, my hands are moving. They co up and cup his face, my palms framing his jaw. The skin under my touch is a furnace.
My eyes widen.
"Moon... you’re burning up."
I grab his wrist, my fingers finding a pulse that’s too fast, too thready.
"We need to get you to a hospital. Now."
I try to turn him, to lead him back toward the door, but he resists. Instead of pulling away, he pushes into . His arms co around in a sudden, tight, almost desperate hug, his forehead dropping heavily against my shoulder.
I freeze, my breath catching.
His scent—that heavy, cloying amber wood—is overwhelming, saturating the air around us, a palpable cloud of fever and distress.
His body is a solid line of scorching heat against mine.
Slowly, carefully, I raise my hands. I don’t push him away. I place them on his back, between his shoulder blades, and hold him.
My touch is firm, steady.
A quiet anchor.
"Moon..." I whisper into the space near his ear, my anger completely dissolved into a wave of stunned concern.
He doesn’t answer. He just holds on tighter, his grip bordering on painful, as if he’s clinging to the last solid thing in a world that’s tilting sideways.
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