unmasked desire のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 71 - チャプター 80

They don’t sit close. That is the first thing Elias notices. Alexander chose opposite ends of the sofa in the penthouse living room, a careful, conscious distance. Not avoidance respect. The kind that requires effort. The city glows beyond the windows, all glass and distance and exposure, a reminder of how visible their lives already are even when they say nothing. Elias breaks the silence first. “If we ever do this,” he says, voice steady despite the weight of the words, “it won’t just be about us.” Alexander nods once. “I know.” The answer comes immediately, without defensiveness, and something in Elias loosens. This isn’t a seduction or a plea. It’s a reckoning. Elias folds his hands together, grounding himself. “It would mean the family. The board. The press. People who think they’re entitled to explanations.” “And people who think they’re entitled to judgment,” Alexander adds quietly. “Yes.” They let that sit. Alexander leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced

They don’t rush.That, more than anything, tells Elias this is different.Alexander’s penthouse is quiet in the way only late nights can be city lights stretching beneath glass walls, the hum of distant traffic softened into something almost soothing. There’s no ritual here, no prepared atmosphere, no careful orchestration. Just two people standing uncertainly in the same space, aware that what they’re about to do matters.Alexander sets his keys down and turns, hesitating like a man who’s forgotten how to begin.“We don’t have to,” he says immediately. “Not tonight. Not at all. I mean it.”Elias studies him. The honesty lands, no manipulation, no hidden expectation. Just an open door and the freedom to walk away.“I know,” Elias says. His voice is steady. “But I want to.”That doesn’t erase the fear. It just places it between them, acknowledged.They move closer, slowly enough that either could stop it. Elias reaches out first, fingertips brushing Alexander’s wrist. He feels the trem

Vincent leaned against the polished oak railing of the club’s mezzanine, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room below. The regular bustle, the faint scent of polished wood, the muted clink of glasses, the hum of conversations was nothing new to him. He had run this club for years. He knew every guide, every regular, every rhythm. But tonight, something else occupied his attention. Alexander moved through the staff and guests with an ease Vincent hadn’t seen in years. There was no pretense in his posture, no calculated charm for appearances. He smiled at a guide giving a demonstration of safety protocols, genuinely engaged. He asked questions, listened intently, leaned in slightly to hear the responses, and, most importantly, allowed himself to be present in a way that was… new. Vincent’s brow tightened not in irritation, but in fascination. Change like this wasn’t accidental. Alexander Vale had always been a fortress. Commanding, precise, almost cruelly controlled. To see him move l

The room felt smaller than it actually was. Alexander’s private conference space—glass walls, dark wood, muted city light bleeding in from the floor-to-ceiling windows had always been designed for control. Deals were made here. Empires adjusted course here. He had never once felt cornered inside it. Until now. Vincent stood near the window, arms crossed, staring down at the city like it might offer answers if he looked hard enough. Elias sat at the table, posture rigid, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. Alexander remained standing, unable to bring himself to sit, as though stillness might mean surrender. Two weeks. That was the timeline. Two weeks before the story broke before speculation turned into certainty, before whispers hardened into headlines. Before everything Alexander had kept compartmentalized threatened to collapse into one brutal, public narrative. Vincent broke the silence first. “We’ve confirmed it’s a coordinated effort,” he said. “

Elias waited in the corridor outside the study with his hands clasped so tightly together that his fingers ached. The house was too quiet. Not the comfortable quiet of late evenings or early mornings, but the tense, held-breath silence that followed decisions already made. Somewhere inside the study, Alexander was sitting across from his parents and from Elias’s mother his shoulders squared, his voice steady, his life splitting cleanly into before and after. Elias wasn’t invited in. That had been Alexander’s choice. I need to do this alone, he’d said earlier, calm but resolute. But I need to know you’re nearby. So Elias stayed. Leaning against the wall. Counting his breaths. Listening to the muffled hum of voices through thick wood and old stone. Every sound felt amplified: the tick of a clock, the distant clink of glassware, the faint echo of footsteps elsewhere in the house. He had never felt so helpless. Inside the study, Alexander sat straight-backed in the armchair opposite