All Chapters of Velvet Smoke & Gunmetal Hearts: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The sound of the front door closing isn’t loud.It doesn’t slam or echo through the penthouse. It’s controlled. Precise. And yet the effect is immediate, like a switch being flipped somewhere beneath the surface of the room.The housekeeper straightens. Sofia’s mum smooths a hand down the front of her dress. Even Sofia’s shoulders tense, just slightly, as if her body reacts before her mind does.Layla turns.The man standing there is younger than she expected.Mid-thirties, maybe. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black suit that fits him like armour rather than clothing. His shirt is crisp, collar open at the throat, dark hair neatly styled with not a single strand out of place. His face is calm in a way that feels deliberate rather than relaxed - as if composure is something he chooses, not something that happens naturally.He closes the door behind him with unhurried precision and surveys the room once, efficiently. When his g

Layla doesn’t intend to be alone with him.It happens slowly, the way dangerous things often do. Sofia’s mum is mid-story in the kitchen, animated and laughing. Sofia is arguing with someone on the phone, her voice rising with familiar irritation. Layla slips away quietly, drawn back toward the living room and the stretch of glass overlooking the city.The skyline glows below, distant and unreal. It makes everything feel smaller. Safer. Like consequences can’t quite reach this high.She’s resting her hands against the cool window when she senses him behind her.“You didn’t say goodbye,” Luca says.She turns. He’s a few steps away, jacket still off, sleeves rolled, the open collar of his shirt revealing the faint line of his throat. He looks younger like this. Less formal. No less controlled.“I wasn’t leaving,” she replies. “Just needed a minute.”“You didn’t ask,” he says calmly.“I didn’t realise I had to.”

Layla sleeps badly that night.Not because of dreams, exactly. There are no vivid images, no sharp edges of memory jolting her awake. Just a constant, low-level awareness that refuses to fade, as if her body is still waiting for something to happen.When she closes her eyes, she sees his hand beneath her chin. Feels the restraint in it. The certainty.By morning, she tells herself she’s being dramatic.The problem is, the feeling doesn’t go away.The week that follows is ordinary on the surface. Work, lectures, Sofia’s endless voice notes complaining about people who exist too loudly. Layla goes through the motions the way she always does, responsible and composed and outwardly unchanged.But something has shifted.She notices it in small things. The way she hesitates before stepping into quiet spaces. The way she becomes aware of where she’s standing, who might see her, what it might look like. The way she checks her ph

Layla spends the next few days hyperaware of herself.Not in the way that feels vain or self-conscious, but in the way that makes her constantly assess where she is standing, who is near her, and how easily a moment might be misread. Sofia’s words echo in her head despite her attempts to ignore them.He’s been tracking you all afternoon.Layla tells herself that Sofia is projecting. That Luca is observant by nature. That noticing people doesn’t mean claiming them.The problem is, Luca doesn’t correct the impression.The next time she comes to the penthouse, it’s for something deliberately public. A small gathering. Friends of Sofia’s mum. Colleagues. People who don’t know Layla well enough to watch her closely.Luca is already there.He doesn’t approach her. He doesn’t isolate her. He doesn’t even speak to her for the first half hour.And yet, Layla knows exactly where he is at all times.She feels it w

Sofia doesn’t wait long. Layla knows it the moment her phone lights up the next morning, Sofia’s name sharp against the quiet of her bedroom. She lets it ring once. Twice. On the third buzz, she answers. “Come over,” Sofia says. No greeting. No softness. “Now.” Layla sits up, heart already racing. “Sof—” “Now,” Sofia repeats. “Before I convince myself I’m imagining things.” The line goes dead. The penthouse feels different in daylight. Less dramatic. More exposed. The glass walls reflect instead of conceal, and Layla can see herself in them as she steps inside - pale, composed, carefully neutral. Sofia is waiting in the living room, arms folded, jaw set. Her mum is nowhere in sight. “You kissed him,” Sofia says flatly. Layla stills. “You don’t get to—” “I saw you,” Sofia cuts in. “Not the kiss. The aftermath. The look. Don’t insult me