Smithen barely registered the call from his mother—her voice calm as she told him she was on a plane home after a year abroad with his brother. They had kept in touch through occasional video calls and texts, but he hadn't seen them in months. His throat tightened, but he swallowed it down. "Okay, Mom," he murmured, ending the call. The silence that followed was louder than her voice had ever been.
He moved through the mansion with a quiet purpose. Everything was already packed—the carefully polished suitcases locked tight, standing cold and silent in the corner like metal tombs. He grabbed a piece of bread and warmed milk for breakfast, the routine strangely hollow. Four months had passed since he'd let most of the staff go, except the watchman and Luxan, both still paid by Viran. Viran. Even the name sent a dull ache through his ribs. The emptiness of the house mirrored the void inside him—a void shaped exactly like a man who had never once looked back.
As he drove out of the mansion, crossing a quiet town road, a sudden crash jolted him. A small girl, around seven, riding a tiny bicycle with her mother running behind, had collided with his car. Smithen stopped immediately. A crowd gathered, voices sharp with blame, but the mother insisted it was the child's fault. They settled under a nearby tree, tension easing.
The little girl ran up to Smithen, holding out a small toy. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with that unguarded trust only children possess. "Since you saved my mother, I want to give you this. He's really useful—you can pinch him, scold him, or anything, and he'll always be your shadow. I was going to keep him, but I want you to have him." Her innocent smile touched something deep inside Smithen—a place he thought had gone numb months ago. He tucked the toy into his bag, feeling a rare warmth bloom beneath his sternum. For a moment, he almost smiled back.
Kiren's message popped up—"It's almost time. Come faster. The building's next to that restaurant where we often chat." Smithen pressed the accelerator, the city blurring past into streaks of neon and shadow.
The 25-story building loomed ahead, grand and dazzling with bright banners, twinkling lights, and a sprawling flower boutique like a wedding venue. The air smelled of jasmine and champagne. He moved inside and took a seat, eyes scanning the crowd. Kiren approached, calling out teasingly, "Why are you sitting here? We saved you a front-row seat. You know how hard it was to get it."
Smithen frowned. "Whose wedding is this? Any of our friends?" he mumbled, his voice flat.
"No," Kiren replied, voice tinged with excitement, "It's the cousin of that billionaire heiress—Akanya's cousin."
Smithen's eyes narrowed. "Why bring me here?"
Kiren grinned, sharp and knowing. "Viran Sir will be here, too. You'll see them together—lovey-dovey. Maybe you'll finally forget your one-sided love. You deserve someone who truly cares."
Smithen's jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation flashing through his gaze. His pulse betrayed him with a single, traitorous skip. "I've decided to give up on him," he said, raising one eyebrow. The lie tasted like ash.
Kiren pointed discreetly. "There he is—early, as always. The man who commands every room. Loyal only to one, no side-chicks."
Smithen clenched his teeth, eyes locking on Viran. The man radiated danger and untouchable power, his suit dark as spilled ink, his presence a gravity well that pulled every gaze in the room. Smithen's breath caught—the same stupid, helpless catch it had done for years. His fingers curled into his palms.
Kiren leaned in, whispering against Smithen's ear, "Tonight's the red blood moon—a rare event. We're heading to the tower to watch it. Some say there'll be shooting stars. Maybe you'll see someone new, someone worth liking."
Smithen nodded, expression unreadable. "I'm going to the washroom," he said and slipped away before his voice could crack.
As he walked, a waiter carrying several glasses of red wine suddenly collided with him. The glasses shattered—a symphony of shards and crimson spray. One sharp edge grazed Smithen's hand, and blood welled up instantly, hot and bright, trickling down his wrist in a thin red river. The waiter's voice shifted nervously. "Sorry, sir! Please don't fire me—I'm a family man."
Smithen breathed out slowly, suppressing the anger that usually flared hot behind his ribs. "It's okay," he said quietly and moved on. But the cut throbbed. And somewhere across the ballroom, a pair of dark red eyes had already tracked the glint of blood.
Exchanging glances, the waiter and Akanya shared a knowing look. Akanya reached out to Viran, offering her hand, but he stepped back, refusing to be touched.
Viran's forehead glistened with sweat, his composure faltering. His personal assistant quickly escorted him to a specially prepared VIP room, leaving him alone inside and standing outside. The door clicked shut. But not all doors stayed closed.
On the other side, Smithen was inside the washroom of a guest room. He scrubbed his hands, water soaking his white shirt until the white fabric clung to his toned chest, revealing every sharp line of his abs, the dusky peaks of his nipples, the hollow of his navel. The cold water did little to soothe the chill that swept over him—a shiver that wasn't from the temperature. It was Viran's gaze, from the phantom weight of eyes that had never once looked at him with want.
"Smithen…"
The voice was a whisper, yet it struck like thunder in the silent washroom. He spun around, heart slamming against his ribs so hard he felt it in his throat.
Viran stood there.
The door was locked behind him—Smithen was certain he'd locked it. But there he was, filling the frame with his impossible presence. His usual icy composure had cracked wide open. Sweat clung to his brow, darkening the edges of his hair. His chest rose and fell too quickly, the fabric of his shirt straining with each uneven breath. And his eyes—those dark-red, unreadable eyes that had always slid past Smithen like he was furniture—were burning with something raw, feral, and terrifyingly intimate.
"How did you get in here?" Smithen's voice came out fractured, breathless. His wet shirt clung to his trembling frame. The cut on his hand throbbed, a bead of blood sliding down to his wrist and dripping onto the marble floor with a soft, obscene plink.
Viran didn't answer. He moved.
Each step was slow, deliberate, predatory. The air between them grew thick, heavy with unspoken things. Smithen's back hit the cold marble sink, and he had nowhere left to retreat. His soaked white shirt clung to his skin like a second layer, every contour of his chest visible, the pink heart-shaped birthmark on his right hip peeking through the translucent fabric where his shirt had ridden up.
Viran's gaze dropped to it. Lingered. His pupils dilated.
Then, without a word, he reached out.
His fingers—usually so distant, so untouchable—grazed the hem of Smithen's wet shirt. Slowly, agonizingly, he pulled it up, exposing the birthmark fully. The air hit Smithen's bare skin, and he shivered. Viran's palm pressed flat against his hip, warm and solid, a stark contrast to the cold water still dripping down Smithen's body. That single touch sent a bolt of heat straight to Smithen's groin, a rush of blood that made him dizzy.
Smithen stopped breathing.
"What—what do you want?" he managed, the words barely a whisper. His voice cracked on the last syllable. "Put me down—how did you—"
But Viran wasn't listening. Or maybe he was listening to something else entirely—the frantic beat of Smithen's heart, the shallow hitch of his breath, the soft whimper that Smithen hadn't even realized escaped his lips. He lifted Smithen then, as if he weighed nothing, cradling him against his chest. Smithen felt the heat of him through his suit, felt the frantic rhythm of Viran's heart—matching his own. Faster. Harder.
He's trembling too.
The realization shattered something inside Smithen. All those months of cold shoulders and averted gazes, of telling himself he was invisible to this man—and now Viran's arms were wrapped around him, and those arms were shaking.
"I couldn't stay away," Viran finally spoke, his voice raw, stripped of its usual steel. It cracked on the last word. "Not tonight."
Before Smithen could ask what that meant, Viran leaned in.
The first kiss landed on his temple—soft, almost reverent, like a prayer Smithen had never deserved. Smithen's eyes fluttered shut. His lips parted on a shaky exhale. Then Viran's lips traced downward, ghosting over his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, teasing, tormenting, leaving a trail of fire on Smithen's rain-chilled skin.
"Viran…" Smithen gasped. His own voice sounded foreign—low, desperate, aching.
That was all the invitation Viran needed.
He captured Smithen's lower lip between his own, and the world stopped. It wasn't gentle—it was desperate, hungry, a dam breaking after a year of silence. Viran's tongue swept across Smithen's lip, tasting the faint salt of sweat and something sweeter beneath, something that made Viran groan low in his throat. The vibration passed from Viran's chest to Smithen's, and Smithen's hips bucked involuntarily.
When Smithen's lips parted on a shaky exhale, Viran deepened the kiss without warning. His tongue pushed inside, hot and insistent, stroking against Smithen's, claiming every inch of his mouth. Smithen tasted red wine and something darker—desire, months of it, fermented and explosive.
Electricity-that was the only word for it. A current raced down Smithen's spine, curling hot in his stomach, spreading through his limbs until his fingers dug into Viran's shoulders just to stay anchored. His nails bit through the expensive fabric. Viran's hand slid from his hip to the small of his back, pulling him impossibly closer until there was no space left—hips pressing against hips, chest against chest. Smithen felt the hard line of Viran's arousal against his thigh, and his own body answered with a desperate, helpless surge.
Their chests pressed together—Smithen's soaked shirt soaking into Viran's expensive jacket, neither of them caring. The wet fabric dragged against Smithen's nipples, and he moaned into Viran's mouth, a sound he'd never made before, broken and wanton.
Viran answered with a low growl, his free hand sliding up to cup the back of Smithen's head, fingers threading through damp hair, tilting his head for deeper access. He kissed like a man dying of thirst, like Smithen was the only water in the world. His tongue swept the roof of Smithen's mouth, then tangled with Smithen's again, slow and filthy, then fast and frantic, then slow again—a rhythm that made Smithen's mind go blank.
Smithen's mind went blank. Then nothing but this—the slide of Viran's tongue against his, the soft, broken sounds Viran made low in his throat, the way Viran's thumb traced small circles on the nape of his neck like he was something precious. The way their hips ground together, slow and unconscious, a desperate search for friction.
When they finally broke apart, both gasping, Smithen's lips were swollen, glistening, parted around a question he couldn't form. A thin thread of saliva still connected them, stretching, then breaking. His chest heaved. His heart pounded so loud he was sure the whole building could hear it.
Viran rested his forehead against Smithen's. Their breath mingled, hot and unsteady, ghosting over each other's swollen lips.
How did Viran manage to enter the locked guestroom's bathroom? Why is Viran here, so close to Smithen, when he usually keeps his distance and shows nothing but cold indifference? Was the waiter spilling red wine on Smithen really an accident, or a carefully planned trap? If it was a trap, who set it—and why? What was the toy the little girl gave Smithen—just a simple gift, or something more?