Chapter 120: The Visible Current

The Stuttgart play was in motion, a complex clockwork of finance and deception. Anton was publicly all-in, his name attached to the bid with a fervor that the financial press called “a return to Rogers’ bold roots.” Behind the scenes, the trap was being set. Thorne, true to his word, had inserted himself into the due diligence committee, his presence lending an air of unimpeachable integrity to the process.

Within the penthouse, the war room was alive with a different kind of energy. The map of Europe was now overlaid with the delicate threads of their counter-operation: digital honey-pots designed to catch Thorne’s clandestine inquiries, surveillance on Croft’s communications, pressure on Finch to deliver ever more detailed information.

And through it all, a new, dangerous frequency hummed between Anton and Sabatine.

The kiss in the kitchen had broken a dam. The unspoken current Anton had tried to contain, that Sabatine had feared, was now a visible, palpable force in every room they shared. Their hard-won professionalism, the careful distance they’d maintained as partners in a war, was eroding under the relentless pull of it.

It was late in the study. Anton was dictating a subtle alteration to the Stuttgart bid terms, a nuance meant to appeal specifically to Thorne’s known sensibilities. Sabatine, cross-referencing the change with Croft’s known contacts, stood behind him, looking over his shoulder at the screen.

“The clause about retaining the Heisenberg family on the advisory board,” Sabatine said, his voice close to Anton’s ear. “Thorne will see it as sentimental. Weak. We should harden it. Make it a five-year, performance-based contract. That’s the language he respects.”

Anton, feeling the warmth of Sabatine’s breath, the faint scent of him—soap and something uniquely, essentially Sabe—froze. His fingers stilled on the keyboard. He didn’t turn. He simply leaned back, just a fraction, until his shoulder blade brushed against Sabatine’s chest.

“You’re right,” Anton murmured, his voice a low thrum. “As always.”

The contact was minimal. It lasted a second. But the charge that passed between them was enough to make the air crackle. Sabatine’s hand, resting on the back of Anton’s chair, tightened on the leather. He didn’t move away. For a long, suspended moment, they remained like that, a silent circuit of heat and understanding completing itself.

Then Anton cleared his throat, the moment breaking. “Change it to the performance-based model,” he said, his voice slightly rough.

Sabatine straightened, his hand falling away. “Done.”

But the glance they exchanged as Sabatine moved to his own terminal burned. It was no longer the look of co-conspirators; it was a look of shared, simmering hunger, barely banked.

It happened in the kitchen the next morning. Sabatine was making coffee, the simple, domestic act still novel in the sterile space. Anton walked in, tie loose, hair damp from a shower. He reached for a mug from the cabinet above Sabatine’s head, his body caging Sabatine momentarily against the counter.

“Sorry,” Anton said, not sounding sorry at all. His chest brushed against Sabatine’s back.

Sabatine went still, the coffee scoop in his hand hovering over the filter. He could feel the heat of Anton through his own thin t-shirt. He could feel the solid wall of him. The memory of the kitchen kiss, of being pushed against a different counter, flooded back, vivid and hot.

“It’s fine,” Sabatine managed, his voice tight.

Anton didn’t move immediately. He finished getting his mug, his movements deliberately slow. When he finally stepped back, his hand trailed lightly down Sabatine’s arm, from shoulder to elbow, a whisper of a touch that left a trail of fire in its wake.

Neither said a word. The coffee machine gurgled pointlessly. The glance they shared over the island was a conflagration in the cool morning light.

It was becoming impossible to hide. The current was too strong, their control too frayed by proximity and shared peril.

Jessica noticed first. During a strategy session in the living area, she was briefing Anton on the board’s reaction to the Stuttgart terms. Sabatine was analyzing security feeds on his tablet. Anton, listening, kept looking at Sabatine. Not a glance, but a lingering, absorbed look, as if tracking the thoughts behind his focused frown. Jessica’s words faltered. She followed Anton’s gaze to Sabatine, then back to Anton. A subtle, knowing frown creased her brow before she smoothly resumed her report. But her eyes held a new, watchful caution when they landed on Sabatine later.

The building’s staff noticed. The head of the new, vetted security detail—a stern woman named Voss (no relation)—observed the way Anton’s posture would unconsciously orient towards wherever Sabatine was in a room. She saw how Sabatine’s perpetual scan of their surroundings always ended with a micro-second pause on Anton, a silent check-in. She said nothing, but her reports to Anton began including subtle notes on “personnel dynamics.”

Even the world outside began to whisper. A paparazzo, lurking near the building’s service entrance, caught a blurred shot of them on the rooftop garden at dusk. Not touching, just standing close, silhouetted against the dying light. The caption in the low-end tabloid was speculative, crass: “Troubled Tycoon’s Mysterious Confidant: Bodyguard or Boyfriend?” Anton had the story killed before it could gain traction, but the seed was planted.

The dangerous proximity was no longer just a private torment; it was a strategic liability. It was a signal, a flare in the dark showing Silas and Thorne exactly where Anton’s heart was lodged. And it was making them both reckless.

One evening, frustrated by another dead-end in tracing Thorne’s hidden finances, Sabatine slammed his hand down on the war room table. “It’s a ghost trail. He’s using intermediaries we can’t touch.”

Anton, who had been pacing, stopped behind him. He didn’t offer a solution. He just placed his hands on Sabatine’s shoulders, his thumbs kneading the tense muscles at the base of his neck. It was a gesture of comfort, of solidarity, but his touch was electric, possessive.

Sabatine leaned into it for a moment, a groan of relief and something else escaping him. Then reality crashed down. He shrugged off the touch, standing abruptly. “Don’t.”

Anton’s hands fell away. “Why?”

“Because we can’t afford this!” Sabatine snapped, turning to face him, his own frustration and want warring in his chest. “Every look, every touch… it’s a data point for them, Anton! Jessica sees it. The staff sees it. The whole damn city is starting to see it! We’re painting a target on the one thing they can use to break you!”

Anton’s eyes darkened. “You are not a ‘thing.’ You are not a vulnerability to be managed.”

“I am!” Sabatine shot back, the truth tearing out of him. “I’m the vulnerability you didn’t have before! And I’m trying to protect you from it, but you keep… you keep looking at me like that. You keep touching me. And I can’t… I can’t think straight when you do!”

The confession hung in the air, raw and honest. The visible current between them wasn’t just attraction; it was a mutual disarmament. It was compromising them both.

Anton stared at him, the fight draining from his face, replaced by a pained understanding. He took a step back, physically creating space in the room that had grown too small, too charged. “You’re right,” he said, his voice hollow. “I’m compromising the mission. I’m compromising you.” He ran a hand over his face. “We need discipline.”

The word was a lifeline and a prison sentence.

“Yes,” Sabatine agreed, the ache in his chest a physical wound. “We do.”

For the rest of the night, they worked in a strained, careful silence. No glances held too long. No accidental touches. They were two brilliant, dedicated professionals, focused solely on the enemy.

But the current hadn’t disappeared. It had just been forced underground, where it flowed hotter and darker, a subterranean river of need beneath the frost of their newfound discipline. It was more dangerous than ever. Because now, everyone could see the tension where the warmth had been. And a secret kept by two people was one thing. A secret felt by everyone in the room was a weapon waiting to be used. The visible current was now the most visible weakness in their armour, and they had just announced it to every watching eye.

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