21

THEA

The car glides into the underground entrance of the skyscraper, the tires humming softly against the pavement.

I stare up through the windshield, swallowing. The building seems to stretch forever into the sky, glass and steel gleaming, reflecting the evening sky.

Ezra's penthouse must be at the very top.

As we step out, I catch movement from the corner of my eye. My stomach twists. Cameras. Paparazzi. Some pretending to be on their phones, others with lenses hidden under jackets.

"Hey," I hiss, moving closer to him. "There are people with cameras."

He doesn't even glance their way. Just collects the key from the driver and hands it to a waiting valet. He grabs the packages like it’s a normal day, and strolls over to me.

Then—

He slides an arm around my waist, tugging me in.

I tense, caught completely off guard, my hand tightening around my purse.

"You okay, sugarplum?" he murmurs, loud enough for whoever's watching.

Sugarplum.

My face burns.

Before I can answer, he presses a kiss to my temple—gentle, lingering, way too real.

"Relax," he whispers against my skin. "They're eating this up."

Eating my foot. This will just increase the intensity of the scandal.

"I hate you," I mutter under my breath, but my voice shakes too much for it to sound convincing.

He chuckles, deep and low, sending a shiver down my spine. His hand strokes slow, soothing circles over my hip as he guides me toward the private elevator like we're some storybook couple.

I don’t dare look around. I can feel the camera flashes without seeing them.

We slip into the elevator and the doors slide closed behind us, trapping us alone in the golden, mirrored box.

I back up fast, keeping a healthy two feet between us before I finally let out a breath. The elevator even smells like him.

Then, memories slam into me. Memories of the last elevator ride. How he stepped into my space. How his breath fanned my skin. How he looked at me like he wanted to eat me alive.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, willing the elevator to move faster.

Faster.

Faster.

Mercifully, the elevator dings just minutes later.

Then, the doors slide open, revealing a wide hallway lined with sleek marble floors and dark wood accents with only one door ahead.

His.

He steps out as if he can't wait to exit.

I hesitate at the threshold, heart hammering.

This... this is wrong, isn't it?

Fake dating doesn't mean stepping into your boss’s private penthouse.

Fake dating means fake dinners, fake hand-holding. Not this.

I grip the strap of my purse tighter.

Ezra glances back. 

"You coming?" he asks, brows raised.

"I..." I trail off, throat dry.

His default cold face softens just a bit. 

"You’re overthinking again," he says easily, more to himself than to me, like he can read my mind. He shifts the bags onto one hand and places his feet on the threshold, keeping the doors from sliding close. "It’s just a place to change. Nothing scary."

Nothing scary.

Right.

Only stepping into the den of the man who kissed my temple like he meant it five minutes ago. Or who's staring at me right now like I'm food.

I force my legs to move, stepping out and following him.

The elevator’s door clicks shut behind me with a soft, final sound.

And for some stupid reason, all I can think is—

I’m not ready for this.

Not even close.

He leads the way as we walk down the hallway to the door. He procures a key and inserts it. The door clicks open, and we step into Ezra’s world.

The first thing that hits me is the silence.

The second is the cold.

The place looks straight out of a high-end design magazine—sleek, sharp, unapologetically expensive.

Dark gray walls. White leather furniture. Silver accents that catch the overhead lights in a sterile, almost clinical way.

No warm colors.

No cozy throws draped over the couch.

No messy pile of magazines or framed pictures cluttering the walls.

Just space.

Beautiful, cold, lonely space.

It fits him, somehow.

He drops the bags by the entryway and kicks the door shut behind him with one precise move.

"You can use the living room," he says, voice tight, nodding toward the massive space ahead where a black sectional and a glass coffee table sits. "Won't interrupt you."

Before I can even respond, he grabs a few of the smaller bags and disappears down a corridor at the end of another hallway on the left.

Gone.

Like he couldn't get away from me fast enough.

I blink, a laugh bubbling up before I can stop it.

Is he... shy?

The mighty Ezra Harrington, king of condescension and one-liners, running away from me?

I drop my purse on the nearest armchair and glance around again, my heart beating fast.

The penthouse is gorgeous, but it feels more like a luxury showroom than a home.

Everything is polished. Immaculate. Controlled.

Just like him.

There's a bar to the right side of the living room, and a flat screen huge TV. At the far back, there's a wall to wall window. And the place is very clean.

I kick off my heels and grab the boxes before dropping them on the white leather couch, feeling like an intruder who just stepped onto forbidden land.

I glance toward the hallway he'd disappeared down, half expecting him to come storming back like he changed his mind.

But nothing.

Silence.

I move quickly, peeling open the first box. My fingers brush over the fabric of the dress I chose.

I lift it out carefully, the material cool and silky against my skin.

Chewing my lip, I unbutton my shirt, shrug it off, and quickly strip down to my bra and panties, trying not to think about the fact that I'm standing half-naked in Ezra Harrington’s penthouse.

I slip the dress over my head, the fabric cascading over my curves like water, settling perfectly around my body.

Almost.

The back is still open.

I twist and reach awkwardly for the ties, struggling to fasten them myself.

The damn thing is designed to cinch at the small of my back in a way that's impossible to do alone.

My fingers fumble with the delicate strings.

Pull, tug, curse.

It’s no use.

I’m trapped, half-dressed, exposed, and starting to panic.

I stare down at the ties in frustration, clutching the loose ties of my dress, heart hammering like a war drum against my ribs.

Maybe I can fix it myself.

I twist again, awkwardly craning my arms over my shoulders, tugging and fumbling with the slippery fabric.

No good.

My fingers slip off the delicate ties again and again until frustration builds behind my eyes.

God. I hate stress.

I could just... wear it like this. Maybe no one would notice.

Yeah right, Thea. An open-back dress hanging half off your body?

Panic flickers at the edges of my mind. I chew the inside of my cheek, staring at the silent hallway.

I could call him.

Just shout.

But the idea of raising my voice here, in this pristine, echoing penthouse, makes my skin crawl.

It would feel... wrong. Like shattering glass.

Maybe if I wait, he’ll come back.

Maybe—

I glance at the clock on the wall. Time is ticking away. The longer I stand here, half-dressed and useless, the more obvious it’ll be. I still need to do my freaking make-up.

I sigh, sagging a little.

Stop being ridiculous. It's just a favor. It's not like you're asking him to undress you.

Still, I hesitate, toes curling into the carpet.

Finally, with a deep, shaky breath, I gather the fabric against my chest and tiptoe down the hallway, cursing every step that brings me closer to him.

When I reach the door, I use one hand to hold the fabric to my chest. I hesitate before knocking with the other. A few seconds later, the door clicks open.

And…

I stare.

I stare like an idiot.

Ezra stands in the doorway, shirtless, a white dress shirt dangling from his fingers like an afterthought. Black slacks hang low on his hips, the faint line of muscle disappearing into the waistband. His skin gleams under the soft light, every inch of him carved, hard, real.

And those abs.

One. Two. Three…

God. Eight.

I snap my gaze up, heat flooding my face, but it’s too late. I saw everything. Every defined line, every shadow.

"Need something, sugarplum?" he drawls, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Words. Where are my words?

"I—" I force a breath. "The dress. I can't—" I tug at the unfastened ties at my back helplessly, cheeks burning. "It won't... tie."