My voice stops him, clean and clear.
"I want you."
His steps freeze. He doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders have gone rigid. The silence in the tent is suddenly heavier than the screams outside. He’s listening.
Moon Arden turns slowly, a controlled pivot, and ets my eyes. The playful arrogance is gone, replaced by a low, serious intensity.
"Why ?" he asks.
I rise from the chair with deliberate grace and close the distance between us, stopping so close I can sll the expensive, oceanic sharpness of his cologne over his natural scent.
"Because you’re the one who suits my new perfu brand," I state, my voice flat.
He stares, then that infuriating, prideful beautiful smirk slips back onto his lips. He looks away with a dismissive toss of his head.
"I know I’m handso. That’s not new to ."
"I didn’t say you were handso," I reply calmly.
His head whips back to . I see it—a flicker of genuine irritation in those sky-blue depths.
Hit the spot.
The great Moon Arden can’t bear a single word that doesn’t worship his beauty.
A slow, knowing smile curls my own lips.
"So why are you here?" he demands, annoyance bleeding into his tone now.
I adjust my tie, a small, precise motion. "I’m here because you are suitable for my brand.
And secondly," I blink, pouring innocent sincerity into my gaze, "to et my dear cousin."
His reaction shifts—from dismissive to genuinely irritated.
"I’m not going to agree. You can’t afford ."
My smile doesn’t falter. "Seriously? Then na your price, Mr. Moon."
He stares, a slow, sharp smirk cutting across his face.
"Even if you gave your entire Kael empire, you couldn’t afford ."
I tilt my head. "Why would I give you my empire? You’re not worth that much."
The insult lands like a physical blow. His blue eyes flash with a sudden, cold anger held on a razor’s edge.
"Get out," he says, the words clipped and final.
"So you’re not going to agree?" I ask, my tone still conversational.
"Yes. No matter what you do."
Slowly, I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. His eyes track the movent like a hawk. I look at the screen, then back at him. "Not even if I have... evidence? Of your more... personal proclivities?"
His expression hardens. "For a mont, I thought you were innocent. But you’re just—" He lunges for the phone.
I step back smoothly. "Dear cousin," I chide, my smile soft, my eyes wide with feigned innocence. "I am innocent. Just a little... villainous. Agree to be my model, and I swear this won’t leave my phone."
He looks away, jaw tight. "No way."
I slip the phone back into my pocket.
"Fine. Then tomorrow’s breaking news will be quite interesting. I wonder how the public will react to Moon Arden’s... intimate video going viral?"
He whirls back, fury contorting his perfect features. "Zyren... you—!"
He steps forward, grabbing the front of my shirt in one fist. I step back instinctively, but my heel catches on a stray cable.
We fall.
My back hits the plush carpet with a soft thud, knocking the air from my lungs. Moon Arden crashes down on top of , his weight solid and warm. My eyes fly wide. Our chests are pressed together.
And then—
A soft, accidental brush.
His lips graze mine.
It’s the softest, most accidental touch—a whisper of contact from the impact. His own eyes widen in mirroring shock, sky-blue pools frozen inches from mine.
We stare at each other, two enemies tangled on the floor in a devastatingly intimate pose, the world reduced to the shock in his eyes and the feel of his mouth against mine.
Before we can even process it, the tent flap rustles.
Manager Jack’s voice cuts in. "Mr. Moon, your next set is— oh!"
We both turn our heads. Jack stands frozen in the entrance, his eyes bulging, taking in the scene—Moon Arden on top of , our faces close, my shirt rumpled in his grip.
His brain visibly short-circuits. He slaps a hand over his eyes. "I’m so sorry for disturbing! Please, continue!"
He backpedals out of the tent almost comically fast.
"IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK!" Moon shouts at the retreating back, but it’s too late.
He shoves himself off with more force than necessary, scrambling to his feet. I push myself up, my back protesting, and begin straightening my clothes, refusing to look at him. My cheeks feel suspiciously warm.
"Don’t forget," I say, my voice admirably steady, "we have a contract to sign. My secretary will send you the eting schedule."
I turn to walk out, my heart pounding a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs.
His hand shoots out, catching my wrist in a firm grip. I freeze.
I look back at him over my shoulder.
"Delete the video first," he demands, his voice low and rough.
I et his furious blue gaze. "Mr. Moon Arden, I’m good at keeping my word. Do the shoot for my company, and it won’t leak."
I twist my wrist, freeing it from his grasp with a sharp tug.
"See you tomorrow."
I walk out of the tent, into the chaotic noise of the set, but I hear none of it. My blood is roaring in my ears, my lips tingling with the ghost of a touch that was all accident and animosity.
Why the hell am I blushing?
Neon, get a grip.
I sink into the plush leather of the car seat, the door shutting with a soft, final thump that seals in silence.
My heart still racing.
Slowly, almost against my will, my fingers rise. They brush against my lips, a whisper of a touch tracing the exact spot where—
Heat.
A flash of mory, vivid and unbidden: the hard impact of the floor, the solid weight of him, the shocking, accidental softness of his mouth against mine. The stunned blue of his eyes, wide and locked with mine.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, a groan of pure mortification trapped in my throat.
God. It’s so embarrassing.
I had a plan. A script. Be the cold, calculating CEO. The unshakeable Zyren Kael. Apply pressure, wield leverage, secure the deal with icy precision. Make him see as a force, not a fool.
And instead? I ended up flat on my back in a makeup tent, in a tangled, lip-brushing heap that looked like a scene from a bad romance drama, witnessed by his manager.
Again. It keeps happening. With Deniz, with Angel, now with him. Every ti I try to be cool, to be in control, my body or the universe conspires to throw into so ridiculous, blush-inducing intimacy.
I press the heels of my hands against my closed eyelids, as if I could push the mory back into the dark.
The car begins to move, gliding away from the garden, from the scene of my latest humiliation. But the phantom sensation lingers on my lips, and the echo of his stunned gaze is burned behind my lids.
Perfect impression? Failed. Miserably.
Now I just have to hope the blackmail works, because my dignity is clearly beyond saving.
Note to self: threatening soone is easy. Facing them after kissing them? Impossible.
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