Chapter 4: The Penthouse Decision

The night was thick and heavy, pressing in on me.

The city seemed to hold its breath, the rain turning everything slick and shining. Streetlights cast long shadows on the sidewalk as I made my way to Matthew’s high-rise, the Uber app pinging a final receipt notification as I stepped out.

Dragging my shaking body, I stumbled to Matthew’s penthouse door.

The elevator ride up was endless. My reflection in the mirrored walls looked pale and wild-eyed, hair still damp from the rain. I steadied myself against the wall, willing my legs not to give out.

I knocked softly.

The sound barely registered, but in the silence of the hallway, it felt deafening. I pressed my forehead to the door, breathing in the cool, faint scent of cedar that always seemed to linger here.

The door opened, and instantly, a crisp cedar scent with a chill undertone washed over me.

It was like stepping into a different world—quiet, calm, and a little intimidating. The air inside was cool, almost cold, and it made my skin prickle.

I looked up.

Matthew stood there, tall and perfectly put together, not a hair out of place. His gold-rimmed glasses caught the light, making his eyes look even sharper.

He had a straight nose and wore gold-rimmed glasses.

His features were so precise, it was almost unfair. He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine—serious, elegant, and utterly untouchable.

A black silk shirt made his pale skin look even more untouchable.

The fabric shimmered in the low light, clinging to his frame in a way that made my heart skip. He looked like he belonged in a different era, somewhere far away from all this mess.

Matthew looked down at me, voice low and cold: "Here to break off the engagement again?"

His words cut through the silence, cool and detached. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something I couldn’t name.

I froze, throat dry, mind blank.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The words stuck in my throat, tangled up with fear and longing.

All I could do was let his deep gaze swallow me, panic and helplessness flooding my chest.

His eyes were so dark, so intense. I felt like he could see right through me, down to every secret I’d ever tried to hide.

He rubbed his brow. "What’s the excuse this time?"

He sounded tired, like he’d heard it all before. His hand moved in a familiar gesture, pushing his glasses up his nose.

His tone was flat, but I caught a flicker of hurt.

It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, but I saw it—a tiny crack in his armor.

No wonder he’d think that.

I’d given him every reason to doubt me. I’d been running for so long, I didn’t know how to stop.

After all, I’d tried to end things with him every way I could think of, every single day.

It was almost a ritual by now—me coming up with excuses, him quietly refusing to let go. It was a dance we both knew by heart.

I knew he’d never agree, but I kept asking anyway.

It was like I was testing him, over and over, just to see if he’d finally give up on me.

I stammered, "I’m not here... to break off the engagement."

The words came out shaky, but I forced myself to look him in the eye.

I wanted to say, I’ve awakened as a succubus, my heat is killing me, I want you to help me.

But I didn’t dare.

My fiancé rarely smiled at me.

His face was always set, unreadable. The few times I’d seen him smile, it had been so fleeting I’d wondered if I’d imagined it.

He almost never showed emotion, always calm and controlled.

He was the master of poker face—never letting anyone see what he was really feeling.

Not just that, but he had real power—he was intimidating even when he wasn’t trying. Even my dad tiptoed around him.

He had this quiet authority that made people listen. Even my parents, who never took no for an answer, seemed to defer to him.

Sometimes I felt like he belonged in a gothic painting, up on a pedestal.

He was all sharp lines and shadows, beautiful and a little terrifying. I felt small next to him, like I could never measure up.

If he even looked my way, I felt honored.

It was ridiculous, but it was true. Every glance felt like a gift I hadn’t earned.

Everyone thought my engagement to him was me marrying way up.

Friends from high school would whisper about how lucky I was, how I’d hit the jackpot. But it never felt that way to me.

Even I thought so.

There were nights I lay awake, wondering what he saw in me—if he saw me at all.

I couldn’t imagine how careful I’d have to be after marrying him.

Every move would be scrutinized, every word weighed. It was exhausting just to think about.

So I started to fear him, even resent him.

I’d built up walls, convinced myself I was protecting my heart. But really, I was just running from what I wanted most.

I didn’t dare tell him my heat had come, much less ask for his help.

The thought of admitting it made my skin crawl. I didn’t want him to see me like this—weak, needy, out of control.

It felt like I’d be dragging him down into my mess.

He deserved better. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

But my legs were jelly. I could barely stand.

I leaned against the doorframe, hoping he wouldn’t notice how badly I was shaking.

The bullet comments were exasperated:

[Go for it, girl! Don’t chicken out. If you ask, he’ll give you anything!]

[Matthew’s too good at hiding it. He acts like he doesn’t care, but his ears turn red when he sees you.]

[Make the first move, or he’ll think you hate him. If he loses control, he’ll lock you up, tie you with a silver chain, only let you see him, keep you by his side forever.]

The imaginary voices in my head were back, pushing me forward, daring me to take a chance.

I trembled.

My whole body was burning, on the verge of collapse.

Matthew noticed something was off, frowned, and pulled me into his arms: "Why’s your face so red? Are you sick?"

His touch was surprisingly gentle, cool fingers brushing my cheek. For a moment, I let myself lean into him, soaking up his calm.

I couldn’t hold back anymore. I grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugged it gently, and pleaded:

"Matthew, I’m so hot, so uncomfortable. Can you kiss me?"

The words tumbled out, desperate and raw. I looked up at him, eyes pleading.

He froze, reached out to touch me, then quickly pulled back, his voice rough:

"Are you drunk? Come on, I’ll take you home to rest."

He tried to keep his voice steady, but I could hear the worry underneath. He was used to handling emergencies, but this was different.

I shook my head. "No! I’m not drunk, I swear!"

I clung to his shirt, refusing to let go. My voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was the only thing I could manage.

"Please, just kiss me, okay?"

I begged.

The word hung in the air between us, heavy with longing. I could feel his heartbeat through his shirt, fast and unsteady.

The back of his hand tensed, his jaw clenched, and a storm flickered in his eyes:

He looked away for a second, like he was fighting with himself. When he met my gaze again, his eyes were darker than I’d ever seen them.

"Lila, don’t do this. Do you know what you’re asking?"

His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. He was trying to hold back, but I could see the cracks forming.

I nodded quickly. "I know, I know."

I bit my lip, disappointed. "Or... do you just hate being engaged to me?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it. I looked away, afraid of the answer.

But then, Matthew cupped my face, the corners of his eyes reddening as he tried to hold back:

His hands were cool and steady, thumbs brushing away the tears I didn’t know I’d started to cry. He looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

"I gave you a chance. You’re the one who came to me."

His voice was soft, almost tender. It felt like a promise and a warning all at once.

"Don’t regret this and cry to me later."

His words were gentle, but there was a steel edge underneath. He was giving me one last out, just in case.

That cedar scent surrounded me.

It was intoxicating, grounding me even as my head spun. I closed my eyes, letting myself fall.

I couldn’t take it anymore—I stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

My lips brushed his, tentative at first. He stiffened, then melted, pulling me closer. His arms wrapped around me, holding me tight.

Matthew was stunned, then hugged me tight, closing his eyes, kissing me back almost reverently.

His kiss was slow and careful, like he was afraid I’d break. But there was a hunger underneath, a need that matched my own.

His cool lips soothed the fever burning in me.

Every touch sent sparks racing across my skin. I pressed closer, desperate for more.

I pressed against him, greedy for his cold touch.

He tasted like mint and cedar, a little bitter, a little sweet. I wanted to drown in him.

His kiss was restrained, leaving me wanting more.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes searching my face for any sign of regret.

I felt so small and desperate.

I clung to him, afraid he’d pull away. I wanted to tell him everything, but the words wouldn’t come.

I wanted to drag him into my mess, make him fall for me, too.

If I was going down, I wanted him right there with me. I was done pretending I didn’t care.

Still not satisfied, I tried to unbutton his shirt, my mind foggy, blurting out, "Matthew, are you... unable to?"

The words slipped out, awkward and clumsy. I blushed, but I couldn’t stop myself.

He was pinned against the wall, his shirt wrinkled, the corners of his eyes a little red.

He looked vulnerable, almost boyish for a moment. It made my heart ache.

He looked almost heartbreakingly beautiful.

I wanted to memorize every detail, every flicker of emotion on his face.

His eyes darkened. He pressed my head closer, kissing me deeper and deeper.

His hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. The kiss turned rough, desperate, like he was trying to erase every doubt I’d ever had.

It was like he wanted to consume me.

I surrendered, letting him take control. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He lifted me into his arms, carrying me into the suite and laying me on the couch.

The world spun as he swept me off my feet, his grip steady and sure. The couch was soft beneath me, the room spinning with possibility.

His glasses landed somewhere on the floor.

They skittered across the hardwood, forgotten. His eyes looked even darker without them, wild and unguarded.

He cupped my face, kissing me hungrily, his tongue tangling with mine. The unfamiliar wetness made me want to pull away.

I gasped, startled by the intensity. But he held me close, refusing to let go.

Just as I tried to move, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back to him.

His grip was gentle but firm, a silent promise that he wouldn’t let me run.

I ended up straddling his lap, legs splayed.

My skirt rode up, baring more skin than I meant to. I blushed, but I didn’t move.

My pale legs stood out starkly against his black suit pants—slim-fit Armani, of course.

The contrast was striking, almost artistic. I felt exposed, but I didn’t care.

A flicker of confusion crossed his face: "Why are you running? Didn’t we just start?"

He sounded amused, but there was a note of genuine curiosity underneath.

He played with my hair, lips curving into a smile: "Lila, the night’s still young. You gonna keep up or tap out?"

His voice was low and rough, sending shivers down my spine. I couldn’t help but smile back, just a little.

His cold voice was rough, making my knees weak.

I pressed closer, letting his words wash over me. I’d never felt so wanted.

His lips trailed down my neck, gently biting my collarbone.

The sensation was sharp, just on the edge of pain. I gasped, clutching his shirt tighter.

That tingling, mixed with a hint of pain, made my whole body melt.

I arched into him, desperate for more. Every nerve ending was on fire.

"Mmm..." I let out a soft moan, clutching his shirt, cheeks burning with embarrassment and a wild fear that the neighbors might hear.

The sound surprised me, but I didn’t care. He smiled, clearly pleased.

"So good." He kissed my forehead and sighed. "Lila, is it only when you’re tipsy that you’re this sweet?"

His words were teasing, but there was a hint of vulnerability underneath. He wanted to know if this was real.

I was confused. Why did he still think I was drunk?

I frowned, trying to find the words. But before I could answer, the door slammed open.