Friday Morning – Leona's Apartment, Midtown Manhattan
> "Lust not after her beauty in thine heart; neither let her take thee with her eyelids."
— Proverbs 6:25 , The Holy Bible
"Lust can defeat even the mightiest of Alphas."
Ethan whispered this to himself at dawn, the silver veil of morning brushing against his cheek. The line wasn't just from scripture—it was a warning echoing across timelines. He wasn't immune. No one was.
Beside him, beneath silk sheets, Leona Joey lay asleep. Her honey-blonde hair pooled across the pillow like melted gold. The softness of her breath synced with the occasional pulse of city sounds far below. One bare leg peeked out of the covers, curved with both grace and strength. Her fingers still rested lightly over his ribs, a silent claim she made during the hours neither of them spoke, but everything was said.
Ethan sat up slowly, the sheet folding away from his waist. He didn't move like a man regretful of the night. He moved like someone calculating its consequences.
Last night was not an accident—it was a convergence.
He stood, walked into the marble-tiled bathroom, and splashed his face with cold water. The man who stared back from the mirror looked unchanged… but something in his eyes had shifted. Not softened—deepened.
A short while later, the scent of coffee drew him back toward the kitchen. Leona was already up, wrapped in a soft slate-gray robe, freshly brewed Birch roast in one hand, and a delicate omelet on the marble island beside a chilled glass of pineapple juice.
"You're an early riser," she said, voice slightly hoarse in the most human way.
"So are storms," Ethan replied with a faint smirk.
Leona leaned her hip on the counter. "You're not going to act like last night didn't happen, are you?"
"I don't repeat moments. I use them."
Her eyes flared slightly at that, both challenged and amused. "Then use this one properly and eat. You've got charts to conquer, god of ambition."
He sat down, took a forkful of the omelet—fluffy, lightly herbed—and nodded. "Not bad."
"High praise from someone who thinks sleep is a liability."
They shared the kind of silence that wasn't uncomfortable—just composed. Mutual. Mature. Ethan glanced once toward her, her neckline slightly open, collarbones catching light.
After breakfast, Ethan checked his phone. One missed call from John Stewart and a short text:
"Alive or abducted? You've gone full Houdini."
Ethan replied dryly:
"Spent the night in Manhattan. At Leona's."
The response came instantly:
"This is becoming suspiciously non-suspicious. I'm scared."
Ethan allowed himself the ghost of a grin. Then he grabbed his coat from the back of the velvet couch and walked toward the door.
"You're heading out?" Leona asked.
"College. I've got numbers to rearrange and eyes to avoid."
She crossed the room and handed him a folded document. "Send me your revised ARGOS model by tonight. I want to go over it before Marco's gala."
He took the paper but didn't touch her hand. That alone said more than words.
At the elevator, Ethan paused. "Leona."
"Hmm?"
"You're dangerous."
She smiled—subtle, wicked. "I'm aware. But so are you, Ethan. That's why it works."
The doors slid shut.
And Ethan Vale descended into the pulse of New York City not as a boy who surrendered to temptation…
…but as a man who survived it—with eyes still set on the empire he hadn't built yet, but had already begun to own.