THE TASTE THAT LINGERS.
588 Words
Leona didn’t sleep.
Not because of the kiss—though it replayed in her mind like a forbidden song on loop.
Not even because of Elias’s words. I want them to look.
No, what haunted her was the way it felt to be seen. To be wanted. To be known.
And the worst part?
She had wanted it too.
---
Elias didn’t sleep either.
He sat in his office long after midnight, the city lights below him glowing like a broken constellation.
He touched his bottom lip, as if the taste of her still lingered there.
It did.
And he was ruined.
---
Monday came fast and sharp.
Leona arrived early, as always—elegant in a tailored gray dress, her hair swept back in a way that said: professional.
But she could feel it the second she walked in.
His eyes.
Watching her. Wanting her.
She didn’t look at him when she passed. She couldn’t.
Because she knew that if she did, something would break.
---
Mid-morning, Amira entered Elias’s office and found him staring out the window, hands buried in his pockets.
“You’ve been distracted lately,” she said.
Elias didn’t turn.
“I’m focused where it matters.”
“Then maybe you should stop pulling the company’s former secretary into galas and dances. The board is watching.”
“Let them.”
“She’s older. She’s controversial. She’s—”
“She’s mine,” he snapped, his voice ice and fire.
Amira flinched. Then paused. “I see.”
But she didn’t. Not really.
No one did.
---
At lunch, Elias found her alone in the old records room—she had intentionally picked a place no one visited anymore.
But of course, he found her.
“Leona,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him.
She didn’t look up.
“This is a mistake,” she said.
“Then why haven’t you run?”
She turned, her eyes sharp and defensive—but glassy underneath.
“Because I don’t know how anymore,” she whispered.
He stepped forward, slowly, cautiously. “That kiss… It wasn’t a game to me.”
She bit her lip. “You’re too young to know what kind of damage this could do.”
“And you’re too scared to admit how long you’ve wanted this too.”
Her silence screamed louder than words.
He reached out, his fingers brushing her wrist—light, reverent.
Leona closed her eyes. “Your father would never have allowed this.”
“That’s exactly why I won’t let it go.”
She pulled her hand away—but softly. Not in anger. In fear. Of herself. Of him. Of everything they were becoming.
“I need space,” she said finally.
Elias nodded. Just once. “Then take it. But understand something—”
He stepped closer, his voice low and dangerous.
“Space won’t save you from wanting me.”
And with that, he turned and left—leaving her alone with her racing pulse and a heart that had started beating for someone fifteen years too young, and exactly right.
That night, she sat in her apartment, wine glass in hand, phone in the other.
She scrolled to his name.
Elias Moretti.
She hovered over the message box.
Typed. Deleted. Typed again.
> “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She hit send.
Then turned off her phone like a coward.
Because it was too late.
The line had been crossed.
And nothing would ever be the same.
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