Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The elevator dings, and we step out into a hallway that screams luxury. Dark wood floors, minimalist black sconces casting moody shadows, and a single abstract painting that probably costs more than my Louboutins. He unlocks the door with a press of his thumb, of course it’s biometric, and I step inside like I’ve crossed into another realm.

His penthouse is ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline, glittering like a million secrets. The furniture is sleek and masculine: leather, steel, rich walnut. There’s a fireplace, not electric, a real one, and bookshelves that stretch so high they need a ladder. The air smells like cedar and bergamot and man.

And I thought I had taste.

“You live here?” I ask, stupidly, because obviously he does.

He smirks like he knows exactly how impressive it is, but won’t say it. “Champagne?”

I nod before my brain catches up with my mouth. He disappears into the kitchen, and when he comes back, he's holding a bottle that looks more expensive than the one I threw at Monty this morning. My heart lurches.

“Wait,” I say, blinking. “Is that—?”

“Krug,” he says, popping it open with a casual flick of his wrist. “Figured you deserved a do-over.”

That’s all it takes. My knees go a little wobbly. The sheer audacity of him, rich, charming, sexy and considerate? I’m already losing this battle.

We toast. The champagne is cold and crisp, and it makes my mouth tingle. So does the way he’s looking at me.

Then he leans in again, brushing his fingers down my arm like a question. I answer it with a kiss.

It’s slower this time. Deeper. My hands fist in his shirt without thinking. His lips trail down to my jaw, then to the soft spot just below my ear, and my entire body sighs into him.

But somewhere in the chaos of desire and expensive alcohol, I mumble, “Give me a sec, I just... need to freshen up.”

His eyes darken, but he nods, stepping back. “Down the hall, second door on the left.”

I make it into the bathroom and close the door, pressing my back against it like I’m trying to hold myself together.

Get a grip, Charlotte.

I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. Blonde hair slightly mussed, lips swollen from kissing, mascara still holding on for dear life. My blue eyes look wide, glassy, alive. And underneath all of that… panic.

What the hell are you doing?

Even at my wildest in college, and that was, like, two and a half wild nights, I never followed a stranger home. I either made out with them in the dark corner of some bar or kicked them out of my place before sunrise. This is not me. This is risky. This is a bad idea.

What if he’s a murderer?

What if this is how Dateline episodes start?

I take a deep breath.

And then I open the door.

The lights are dimmed now. Soft music plays from somewhere, barely audible over the quiet crackle of, wait, are those candles? Yep. He’s lit a few. Not enough to look try-hard, just enough to soften the edges of the room. And on the marble island in the kitchen?

Strawberries. Chocolate cake. Whipped cream.

My anxiety packs its bags and flees the building.

He’s standing at the counter, slicing a strawberry in half like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just commit the most romantic act I’ve seen since The Notebook.

I walk toward him slowly, barefoot now. He looks up. Smiles. And something in that smile flips a switch in me.

“Feeling better?” he asks, voice low, eyes lingering on me like I’m the only thing worth looking at.

I nod. “You light candles for all the broken girls you bring home?”

“Just the ones who make me laugh at 1 a.m.”

And then he’s walking toward me, slow and certain, like a man who knows exactly how this night is going to end. Suddenly, I’m not panicked. I’m starving.

When he kisses me again, it’s different.

No bar crowd. No elevator urgency. It’s deeper now. Slower. He takes his time like he’s tasting the moment, not just my mouth. My hands curl into his shirt as he guides me toward the bedroom, and it’s like my body knows the steps even if my brain’s lagging behind.

He lays me on the bed like I’m fragile, even though we both know I’m not.

The sheets are soft. The room is dark except for the glow of the city behind the windows. He trails kisses down my throat, my collarbone, his fingers brushing over every part of me like a question: Are you sure? Is this okay? And the answer is yes. It's yes every time.

His mouth trails heat down my neck as my dress slips off my shoulders. He kisses like he means it, like he's trying to memorize me, not just undress me. And when we make it to the bedroom, there’s no fumbling, no awkwardness. Just chemistry, sharp and alive, drawing us toward each other like magnets.

We don’t rush. We savor.

The sheets are cool when I fall back into them. He follows, one hand braced beside my head, the other tracing slow, reverent patterns along my thigh. My breath catches when his mouth finds my collarbone, then lower. He moves with a kind of quiet confidence, like he knows every inch of my body without needing to ask.

It’s not just sex. It’s release. It’s desperation. It’s that beautiful, dangerous intersection of pain and pleasure where two strangers become the only lifeline either of them has.

And God, it’s good, oh so good.

We move together like we’ve done this before in another life, like our bodies have been waiting to find each other in this exact moment. It’s fast, then slow. Sweet, then filthy. I cry out his name more than once. He says mine like a secret.

I don’t know when we fall asleep. Only that it’s late, and my heart feels like it’s finally stopped breaking.

And the last thought I have before falling asleep,

Monty could never.