บททั้งหมดของ Crossing Lines: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

Lana ReyesI brush a strand of hair out of my face and stare down the mirror like it owes me something. The girl looking back is tired, sure. But she’s also sharp. Hard where it matters. Unmoved.“I’m Lana Reyes. Twenty-three. NYU law student.”I say it under my breath like a spell. A shield.Because once I step out of this locker room, it’s game time. And this place doesn’t make room for people who forget what they’re worth.The dress is regulation—black, tight, a hemline engineered to distract. I tug at it anyway, just to remind myself it’s a uniform, not an identity. The heels hurt. That’s fine. Pain keeps me awake.The moment I push through the service door, Vortex swallows me whole.Bass. Smoke. Money. The scent of overpriced cologne and underdeveloped character.Every girl here is selling some version of the same fantasy: effortless beauty, empty smile, pliable body. I don’t sell anything. I deliver drinks and keep my head down.I weave through the crowd like muscle memory. Tray

Lana ReyesThe day had already taken me apart and left the pieces scattered across casebooks and caffeine crashes. My back ached from lugging textbooks like I was some overburdened academic mule, my brain fried from Socratic slaughter, and my iced coffee was now just sad, bitter water. NYU Law was prestigious, alright. So prestigious it came with a side of burnout and soul erosion.The hallways buzzed with desperate energy. Students with hollow eyes clutched flashcards like lifelines, their voices tight with stress, comparing notes and internship prospects like stock traders. I didn’t even bother stopping at the bulletin board anymore—just more dream jobs I couldn’t apply for because I’d be too busy slinging overpriced cocktails at Vortex until 3 a.m.I was halfway to my last lecture of the day, already fantasizing about collapsing face-first into bed—until I saw the crowd.A throng of students jammed the corridor outside the lecture hall, chattering like they’d just spotted a celebri

Lana ReyesThe gallery smelled like varnish and ambition.Tonight was Mark’s night, and for once, the universe seemed to know it. The Greenwich Gallery—glass and steel and art-world pedigree—stood like a temple to talent. Inside, light spilled from elegant sconces, catching the edges of wine glasses and whispered conversations. The space pulsed with cultured energy, with the soft click of Louboutin heels and the low hum of praise from Manhattan’s elite.Mark’s work was everywhere—raw, vibrant canvases that hit like emotion cracked open and spilled wide. His colors didn’t ask for attention, they demanded it. You couldn’t look at his art without feeling something.I watched him from across the room—shoulders square, jaw tense with that telltale flicker of nerves he thought he hid so well. He looked… ridiculously good. The white shirt he’d agonized over hugged his frame perfectly, sleeves pushed to the elbows, exposing tanned forearms smudged faintly with paint. His brown hair fell in so

Lana ReyesThe steady thrum of Vortex was supposed to drown him out.That was the lie I kept clinging to like it might hold.The lights, the music, the endless rotation of overpriced cocktails and spoiled Wall Street assholes—it should’ve kept me focused. Numb. Safe.But it didn’t.Because no matter how many drinks I poured, how many fake smiles I forced, I couldn’t scrub him from my skin.Couldn’t un-feel what he did to me.I moved behind the bar like a ghost in heels. My hands remembered the motions—lime wedge, pour, garnish—but my body? My body was still pressed to the hallway wall, gasping into his shoulder while his fingers slid deep and filthy between my thighs.God.My muscles clenched, a betrayal I couldn’t control. Every step reminded me. The heat. The stretch. The pressure of his palm grinding against my clit until I came hard enough to see stars, fully clothed, like I was already his.And then he looked at me—wrecked, panting—and said, smug as sin:“See? I could make you co

Lana ReyesThe first thing I feel is the cold.Not just the empty stretch of bed beside me—Nathan’s side already stripped of warmth—but the sterile, surgical silence of the room itself. Too clean. Too still. Like nothing ever happened here.Even the sheets don’t smell like him.There’s no imprint on the pillow. No rucked blankets. No lingering heat on the mattress. Just the quiet aftermath of a man who never truly stays.He’s always gone by morning. Slipping out before the light shifts. Before I can reach for him. Before I can pretend he ever really let me.And the worst part?I always feel it. That moment he leaves.It drags me out of sleep like a ripcord—a whisper of movement, the soft click of the door, the shift in gravity that happens when he disappears.Like the room exhales once he’s gone.This is what mornings look like in Nathan Cross’s world—cold, clinical, precise. Like I was never supposed to know he was there at all.I sit up slowly. Every inch of me aches where he touche