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The first thing Vivienne felt was silk.
The sheets—smooth and expensive—clung to her thighs like a second skin, cool against the warmth of her bare body. Her head throbbed dully, and the room spun just enough to remind her that she’d had one drink too many—or maybe several. Her lashes fluttered open, and she stared at the ceiling, ornate with golden light pouring in from half-closed blinds.
She sat up slowly. Her head pounded, but her thoughts raced even faster.
Where am I?
The bedroom was masculine, too neat to be hers, too intimate to be a stranger’s. She scanned the space. Leather furniture. A framed vinyl of The Rolling Stones. A glass ashtray with a still-burning cigar. This wasn’t a hotel. This was a personal space.
Then she saw the shirt—black, unbuttoned—draped on a nearby chair. Her mouth went dry.
Damien.
It had to be him. That smirk. That challenge in his eyes. The dangerous edge to his touch. The memory of his lips on her throat flashed through her mind like lightning, followed by the feel of his hand trailing up her thigh in the VIP booth.
But then another memory stirred beneath it, slower and quieter—gentle fingers brushing her hair from her face, someone whispering her name, carrying her…
Luca?
Her chest tightened.
She didn't even know which of them had brought her home. Or worse, who had touched her last.
She pulled the oversized shirt from the chair and slid it on. The fabric smelled of sandalwood and smoke. It fit too well to be Damien’s. Damien didn’t own anything that could be described as comforting.
Luca, then.
A knock.
She turned sharply, heart leaping into her throat.
The door opened a c***k, and Luca stepped inside, eyes locking onto hers.
“You’re awake,” he said gently, voice like velvet and guilt.
She swallowed. “You stayed?”
He leaned on the doorframe, his rumpled dress shirt half-untucked. “I brought you here.”
Vivienne stood completely still.
“You don’t remember?” he asked, walking closer.
“I remember dancing... Damien kissing me…” Her voice cracked. “And then—nothing.”
Luca’s jaw clenched. “You were wasted. He left. I didn’t think you should be alone.”
She stared at him. “So we didn’t—?”
“No,” he said quickly. “You fell asleep on the drive here. I carried you in.”
Relief hit first. Then embarrassment. Then disappointment.
“You took care of me,” she said.
“You looked like you needed someone to.”
She moved toward the window, arms crossed tightly across her chest. “I hate that I needed anyone.”
He didn’t answer, but the silence was heavy. Heavy with all the words he wasn’t saying.
She turned back around to face him. “You always do that.”
“What?”
“Look at me like I’m someone worth saving.”
of her. The girl who smiled and nodded and said she was okay when she was bleeding inside.”
Luca crossed the room and stopped just inches from her. “You’re not her anymore.”
Her lip trembled. “Then who am I?”
He didn’t speak. Instead, he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—just like he used to when they were younger.
And in that moment, she hated how warm she felt. How safe.
“Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”
“I’m not the one making it hard.”
Their eyes locked, and the tension was palpable—something old, something simmering. She didn’t move when his fingers brushed her cheek. She leaned into it, even.
But just as quickly, she pulled away.
Before either of them could say another word, the sound of the front door slamming downstairs echoed through the apartment.
They both froze.
Then footsteps—slow and deliberate—climbed the stairs.
A hard knock rattled the bedroom door.
“Vivienne.” The voice was sharp, gravelly. Commanding. “Open the damn door.”
Her blood ran cold.
Damien.
She looked at Luca, panic flashing in her eyes.
He didn’t flinch. “Your call.”
“Luca—”
“I’m not leaving unless you ask me to.”
Damien’s voice came again, this time darker. “Vivienne. I know you're in there.”
She turned to the door, heart thundering.
She had a choice.
The man inside this room knew her heart, had held it when it was broken, and never asked for anything in return.
The man outside had stolen her breath, pushed her limits, and stirred something wicked in her.
One was safety. The other was fire.
But both were dangerous.
She reached for the doorknob, her hand trembling.
Then she stopped.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered.
Luca placed a hand on her shoulder. “Then don’t decide tonight.”
But it was already too late. The storm had begun, and whether she wanted to or not—she was standing right in the eye of it.
- Writer
