Wednesday Night – Leona's Apartment, Midtown Manhattan
09:52 PM
The lights of Manhattan blinked far below like scattered embers, but fifty-seven floors up, it was quieter. Still. A sanctuary above the noise, wrapped in glass, silence, and the weight of rising tension.
Ethan sat at the dining bar, shirt sleeves rolled up, fingers brushing lightly over his tablet. Graphs glowed in cool blue—rising arrows, dense indexes, and precise calculations. His new ARGOS model wasn't just stable—it was predictive, dangerously close to what hedge firms would call prophetic.
Behind him, the faint sound of water stilled.
Leona stepped out onto the hardwood with droplets trailing from her calves. Her honey-blonde hair was damp, loosely cascading over one shoulder. The silk towel she'd wrapped around herself clung with casual precision—one hand gathering it just above her chest, the other adjusting a few stray strands behind her ear.
"You really make this look like war," she said, eyes on the tablet screen.
"It is," Ethan replied, not looking up. "Markets are human behavior scaled. Anticipating it isn't luck. It's power."
She walked closer, slowly, water-slick feet silent on the floor. "And you're planning to use it to... rise?"
Ethan finally looked at her. "No. To stay untouchable when I do."
Her lips curled slightly. She walked past him, dropped onto the couch, and let her towel slip a little lower—just enough to blur the line between accidental and deliberate. The air between them tensed.
"I like the way you speak like you already own the world," she said. "Even though it hasn't given you anything yet."
Ethan stood and closed the tablet. "It's not about what it gives. It's about what I decide to take."
She watched him as he walked toward the guest room hallway. But before he could turn the corner, her voice—low, unguarded—cut through.
"Sleep here."
He turned his head slightly, one brow lifting.
"I don't sleep well alone after long days," she added, almost too casually.
He walked back—slow, deliberate, calm. Then paused beside the bed.
"You sure?" he asked, voice a shade quieter now. "This isn't a game you'll win."
Leona's fingers unhooked the towel and let it slide down, revealing naked body still dewed from her bath. She slipped under the sheets with practiced ease—unrushed, regal, almost indifferent. "Who said I came to win?"
Ethan stared a second longer, then peeled off his coat and shirt just pant and joined her. A breath between them. A storm of meanings in the silence.
They lay side by side, her body warm against his—soft curves against the outline of his restrained stillness. She turned, placing a hand lightly on his chest.
"You don't want to touch me?"
"I want a lot of things," Ethan murmured. "But control matters more."
She leaned closer, her breath whispering across his neck. "You're colder than I expected."
He smiled without warmth. "Because you expected a boy. Not a man who already died once."
Leona silenced for sometime and then Leona's hand lingered at his side, but the seduction softened into something quieter. Not retreat—just realization.
They didn't speak after that.
And as the city pulsed below, they lay there—two bodies close, two minds calculating—both knowing this night wasn't about sex.
It was about position.
And in that silence, Ethan Vale didn't lose an inch.