Thursday — Leona's Apartment, Midtown Manhattan
By noon, the sunlight had shifted across the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden streaks on the modern steel and stone interior. The day was Ethan's—intentionally made so.
He sat near the glass balcony, a sleek tablet on his lap, stylus in hand. His fingers moved in swift, calculated precision across digital charts—candlestick patterns, asset volatility trends, algorithmic triggers.
He wasn't reacting to markets.
He was writing their tempo.
Nearby, the sound of splashing water lapped softly. Leona, having just finished a high-production video collaboration for an eight-figure fashion brand, was floating in her private balcony pool. Her hair swept back, sunglasses on, arms drifting wide as if letting the sky carry her.
Ethan glanced at her once—only once. Then returned to the screen.
When the sun finally dipped behind the skyline, turning the water bronze, the silence between them shifted. Not from distance—but from gravity.
---
8:37 PM — Same Apartment
Leona stepped out of the pool wrapped in a thin robe, droplets trailing down her legs. She stood by the open glass door, watching Ethan scroll through one last pattern.
"You always look like you're breaking some invisible code," she murmured.
Ethan didn't look up. "That's because I am."
She approached, slow and barefoot, pulling her damp hair over one shoulder. "Most men I've dated needed time off to 'escape.' You need time off to conquer."
"I don't conquer," Ethan said, finally glancing up. "I correct trajectories."
Leona smirked. "Even mine?"
He didn't answer. Just tilted his head toward the kitchen. "Your juice from earlier was too sweet. You're adjusting your own sugar curve?"
She laughed, stepping past him with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "You can measure markets but not mood, Vale."
He rose now, moving toward the guest room.
"Turning in early?" she asked, tone low but teasing.
"Need a reset," he replied. "Big week coming."
Leona raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. "No offer to stay in my room tonight?"
Ethan paused at the threshold. "I don't repeat decisions without a new variable."
She said nothing. Just smiled faintly. And let him walk.
---
10:12 PM — Guest Room
As Ethan slid into bed, a message pinged from John Stewart.
John:
Where the hell are you, Greek boy?
Ethan:
With Leona. Her apartment. Midtown Manhattan.
John:
Oh. Right. Normal Thursday behavior now.
Tell her to save me a Birkin or whatever rich people collect.
Night, stock sorcerer.
Ethan:
Sleep. Before you text me memes again.
John:
No promises. Out.
Ethan chuckled under his breath. The screen dimmed.
---
Somewhere near Midnight
It started with warmth.
Soft. Intentional.
Something barely perceptible brushing across his chest. Then a shift. A breath beside him. The scent of sandalwood and faint citrus. The feeling of smooth skin and a dumpling—unmistakable and bare—against his side.
Ethan opened his eyes slowly.
Leona was curled against him, arm over his ribs, breath calm and shallow. A strand of her honey-blonde hair tickled his collarbone. Her hand rested gently over his chest… then drifted lower.
His first instinct was stillness. Strategic evaluation.
But then he saw her face. Not mischievous. Not seductive.
Peaceful.
Vulnerable in a way most wouldn't see. Not Leona Joey, the curated icon of corporate poise. But the woman underneath.
His hand reached up slowly, brushing her cheek. Then, gently, his lips met hers—soft, slow, almost reverent.
She stirred, lashes fluttering open. A sleepy smile tugged at her mouth.
"You kissed me," she whispered.
"You were asking without asking," he replied.
"And what did you hear?"
"That you needed silence answered with certainty."
Her eyes held his—no words this time. Just a shared awareness that something had changed.
Still wrapped in stillness and silk, she curled closer.
And Ethan—who had always guarded his mind like a fortress—didn't resist.
He simply closed his eyes.