Chapter 5

Maya's POV

The evening air carried the scent of rain-washed asphalt and expensive cologne as Knox’s hand settled at the small of my back, guiding me through the side entrance of the restaurant. Outside, the flashbulbs had already begun their frantic dance—reporters shouting my name, fans pressing against the velvet ropes, phones held high. I kept my chin lifted the way he’d taught me, the practiced half-smile that said I belonged here even while my pulse hammered against my throat.

Inside the VIP section the noise dulled to a low murmur. The room was glass-walled but frosted, private enough that the handful of other power players at neighboring tables only glanced up once before returning to their conversations. Candlelight flickered across dark wood and white linen. Knox pulled out my chair, the perfect gentleman, then sat beside me instead of across, his thigh brushing mine under the table.

We ordered. The waiter poured wine. Knox’s fingers found the hem of my dress almost immediately, sliding upward along the bare skin of my thigh with casual insolence. I stiffened, fork halfway to my mouth.

“Smile,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “They’re watching through the glass.”

His hand traveled higher, pushing the fabric aside until he met the lace edge of my underwear. Two fingers slipped beneath, finding me already slick. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. He circled slowly, deliberately, pressing against the exact spot that made my hips want to lift.

“Not a sound,” he said, voice low and velvet-dark. “Or I’ll bend you over this table right now and fuck you in front of every important person in the city. They’d pretend not to look. But they’d listen.”

Heat flooded my face. I forced myself to cut a piece of sea bass, to chew, to swallow. His fingers pushed deeper, curling, stroking in a steady rhythm that matched the soft jazz playing overhead. My free hand clenched the napkin in my lap. Every nerve ending screamed. I could feel how hard he was, the thick ridge of him pressing against my knee whenever he shifted. The knowledge that he was suffering too only made the ache worse.

I almost moaned when he added a third finger. The sound escaped as a tiny, choked inhale. His eyes flicked to mine, amused and predatory.

“Almost,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well, Maya. Taking it like you were made for this.”

By the time the plates were cleared I was trembling, thighs pressed together around his wrist, hovering on the edge of something that would have shattered every carefully constructed wall I still had. He withdrew suddenly. I watched, pulse roaring in my ears, as he brought those same fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, right there, in full view of anyone who might glance our way. His tongue lingered. His gaze never left mine.

“Crazy,” I breathed.

“Hungry,” he corrected, and the word landed between my legs like a brand.

Outside, the storm of cameras waited. Knox’s security formed a narrow corridor. He kept an arm around my waist, possessive, as we paused on the steps. Questions flew: Are you officially together? Is this serious? Maya, how does it feel to be Knox Mercer’s—

He didn’t answer any of them. Instead he turned me into him, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck, and kissed me like the world had narrowed to the two of us. Deep, claiming, tongue sweeping into my mouth with the same confidence his fingers had shown earlier. I melted against him, hands fisting in the lapels of his jacket. The crowd exploded with screams, flashes, the frantic click of shutters. His guards held the press back when they surged closer, bodies forming a living barrier.

When he finally lifted his head I was dazed, lips swollen, every coherent thought scattered. The tension between us crackled like static. He looked at me as though the kiss had only whetted his appetite.

“My place,” he said simply.

The drive was silent except for the low purr of the engine and the distant city noise. Inside the penthouse, the lights were low, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering skyline. Knox shrugged out of his jacket, loosened his tie, and nodded toward the living area.

“Make yourself comfortable. I need to take this.” He held up his phone, already stepping toward the balcony doors.

I waited until the glass slid shut behind him. Reporter’s instinct, the same restless curiosity that had gotten me into more trouble than I could count stirred. The apartment was vast, all clean lines and dark marble, but it felt lived-in in carefully curated ways: a half-finished bottle of whiskey on a side table, a stack of architectural magazines, a single framed photograph of a younger Knox with a woman who shared his eyes.

I wandered.

A hallway branched off the main living space. One door stood slightly ajar. I pushed it open and stepped into what was clearly a private study—leather chairs, a heavy desk of polished walnut, bookshelves filled with volumes on finance and history, a locked cabinet that looked older than the rest of the room. The air smelled of cedar and faint cigar smoke.

I shouldn’t.

I did.

The desk drawers yielded nothing beyond expensive pens and blank notepads. A low filing cabinet against the far wall, however, had one drawer that wasn’t fully closed. I eased it open. Inside, nestled between ordinary folders, sat a thin manila file marked only with a single handwritten word in black ink: Legacy.

My fingers closed around it.

I was just lifting the cover when a large hand clamped over my wrist—not painful, but absolute. I spun, heart slamming against my ribs.

Edward Mercer stood behind me, still in a charcoal suit, silver hair immaculate, expression unreadable in the soft lamp light. He looked exactly like an older, colder version of his son.

“And what the hell are you doing in here, Miss. Valeria?” he said, voice quiet and precise. “I don’t believe you’ve been invited into this room.”