Chapter Eight : The Third encounter
1175 Words
It had been three days.
Three whole days since Ace had walked out of her studio, his voice lingering in her head like an echo she couldn’t shut off.
Fernanda had tried to bury herself in work—editing sessions, new bookings, even volunteering to help another photographer sort through inventory—but no matter what she did, that heat between them refused to leave her body. She’d catch herself glancing at the door every time it chimed, half-expecting him to stroll in.
When her phone rang that afternoon, she almost didn’t answer. The number was unknown. But her heart thumped as she swiped the screen.
“Fernanda.”
Her breath hitched. “Ace.”
“Get dressed,” he said.
She frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not working tonight. I’m picking you up in thirty minutes.”
“You’re not—”
“Thirty minutes, Omega.” His voice dropped, slow and deliberate, the kind of tone that curled around her spine. “Wear something you’d regret if I ruined it.”
The line went dead.
Fernanda just stood there, phone in hand, her thoughts a whirlwind of panic and heat. She should ignore him. Tell him she had other plans. But the truth? She didn’t.
By the time the black SUV pulled up outside her apartment building, she was already standing by the curb, wrapped in a knee-length black dress that hugged her curves, her hair loose and brushed out.
Ace stepped out, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, top buttons undone just enough to hint at the strength beneath. He didn’t say a word—just looked at her in a way that made her feel like the only person in the world.
He opened the passenger door. “Get in.”
The car ride was silent at first, the city lights flickering past. Fernanda glanced at him from the corner of her eye—his strong jawline, the way his hands rested on the wheel with casual command.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked.
“You’ll see.”
They stopped outside a high-rise hotel, the kind that screamed money and privacy. Ace led her inside, his hand at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd in the lobby without a word.
The elevator ride was quiet except for the hum of the machinery. She could feel him watching her, his gaze tracing the curve of her neck, the rise and fall of her chest.
When the doors opened, she expected a suite. Instead, they stepped into a dimly lit rooftop bar, the city sprawling in all directions beneath them. Soft music played, mingling with the low murmur of conversation from other guests.
“Why here?” she asked.
“Neutral ground,” he said simply.
He found them a table near the edge, the city lights glittering far below. A waiter appeared, but Ace didn’t even look at the menu—just ordered for both of them.
“Do you always make decisions for other people?” Fernanda asked, arching a brow.
His mouth curved. “Only when I know they’ll thank me for it.”
The drinks arrived—something sweet with a kick for her, dark and strong for him.
“So,” she said, trying to steady her voice, “you bring all your photographers to expensive rooftop bars?”
He leaned back, his gaze never leaving her. “You’re not just a photographer.”
She blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you feel this too.”
Her heart skipped. “Feel what?”
He leaned in slightly, his voice low. “The pull. The way your body reacts to mine. The way mine reacts to yours.”
She swallowed hard, gripping her glass. “You’re imagining things.”
His eyes darkened. “No. You’re just pretending again.”
The conversation stopped when the food arrived, but the tension between them didn’t. Every brush of his hand against hers when passing a dish, every look he gave her—it all felt deliberate, like he was slowly drawing her closer without ever moving his chair.
When they finished, he stood and offered his hand. “Come.”
She hesitated. “Where?”
“Dance with me.”
“There’s no dance floor—”
“There’s music,” he said, already pulling her toward a quieter corner of the rooftop where the lights were lower.
Before she could protest again, his arm was around her waist, his other hand guiding hers up to his shoulder.
“This is ridiculous,” she murmured.
“Then walk away.”
She didn’t.
They moved slowly, swaying to the faint music, the world narrowing until there was only him. The scent of his skin, the steady strength in his hold, the heat of his body against hers—it was too much and not enough all at once.
Ace leaned down, his lips near her ear. “You can keep lying to yourself, Fernanda. But I’m not going anywhere.”
Her chest rose and fell quickly. She wanted to step back. She wanted to press closer. She didn’t know which urge terrified her more.
When the song ended, he didn’t let her go right away. His thumb brushed along her lower back, sending a shiver down her spine.
Then, as suddenly as he’d drawn her in, he stepped back. “I’ll take you home.”
The ride back was silent again, but different this time. Charged.
When he pulled up outside her building, he didn’t try to follow her inside. He just looked at her, something unreadable in his eyes.
“Goodnight, Fernanda.”
She opened the door, stepped out, and shut it behind her.
Only when she was inside her apartment, leaning against the door, did she realize her hands were still trembling.
Fernanda leaned against the inside of her door, willing her heartbeat to slow. She could still feel the ghost of his hand on her lower back, the faint press of his fingers where they had held her steady during that dance.
She walked deeper into her apartment, kicked off her shoes, and tried to distract herself—checking her phone, pouring herself water, anything.
But the screen lit up.
ACE: You looked beautiful tonight.
Her stomach twisted. She should leave the message unanswered.
The typing dots appeared again.
ACE: And you smelled like trouble.
She almost laughed, almost rolled her eyes, but her thumbs betrayed her.
FERNANDA: Goodnight, Ace.
His reply came instantly.
ACE: Goodnight, Omega.
The word did something to her—made her shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cool night air drifting through her open window.
She set her phone face-down on the couch, but it was useless. The man had wormed his way under her skin in just three encounters.
And for the first time in years, Fernanda wasn’t sure if she wanted to stop him.
- Writer
