Chapter Three: He Let Me Hold Him
1271 Words
Celine’s POV
Monterro Gala, 10:18 p.m.
I felt his heartbeat.
That’s what messed with me most.
All this time, he’d been a ghost. A name. A smirk on a screen. But here, in my arms, under a hundred chandeliers and a dozen stolen glances, he was warm. Real. Alive.
And I was holding him.
Or maybe he was holding me.
The violins faded into silence. The last note hung in the air like a dare.
“Time’s up,” I whispered, fingers still on his collar.
He smiled like he knew it too. “Then take me in.”
I reached for the blade hidden at my thigh.
Quick. Quiet.
But faster than breath, he caught my wrist, his fingers curling just tight enough to hold.
“Celine.” His voice dropped. “Not here.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
I looked up. His mask was still on. But his eyes weren’t hiding anything.
Not fear. Not guilt.
Something worse.
Curiosity.
He was testing me.
Seeing if I’d do it. If I’d drag him down right there, in front of everyone, and admit how far I’d followed him.
My lips parted. No words came out.
And that’s when I felt it. A slip.
A small, sharp click against my waist.
He’d taken the blade.
“Son of a—”
I turned too late.
He was gone.
Not vanished. Not smoked out. Just melted into the crowd like a whisper.
I scanned the floor, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, music fading back in.
No sight of him.
No trace.
Just the pulse in my wrist still thumping where he touched me.
Ten minutes later, I stood in the women's bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror.
I looked exactly how I felt.
Unarmed.
Unraveled.
And worse — intrigued.
He let me hold him.
And now I couldn’t stop wondering why.
Past midnight. My apartment.
I didn’t go to HQ.
I didn’t file a report. Didn’t send the footage. Didn’t answer Romero’s calls.
What could I even say? That I danced with a man I’ve been assigned to destroy? That I felt his breath against my neck and forgot, for three full minutes, what justice was supposed to look like?
That would’ve sounded pathetic.
So I walked straight into my apartment, dropped my heels on the kitchen floor, and locked the door behind me.
And that’s when I saw it.
Sitting on the kitchen counter.
A single white envelope.
No stamp. No markings. Just my name, again.
Celine.
This time in ink. His handwriting — slanted, sharp, confident.
I opened it with shaking fingers.
Inside?
A single photo.
Me.
From tonight. From seconds ago.
Standing by the mirror in the ballroom. Unaware. Guard still down.
And below it, one sentence:
“You looked back at me tonight. Finally.” — A.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until it broke out of me like a warning.
No one should’ve been close enough to take that photo.
Not without me noticing.
And yet… he’d been right there.
Again.
I should’ve panicked. Should’ve checked for bugs. Should’ve reported the breach.
But I didn’t move.
I just stared at the picture.
Because what scared me most wasn’t that he was watching me.
It was that…
I didn’t mind.
12:46 a.m.
The city outside my window kept moving.
But I didn’t.
The photo sat in my hand like proof of a secret I wasn’t ready to admit.
He had followed me home. Or worse — had been here before.
I scanned the room.
No signs of forced entry. No hidden cams. No trace of a break-in.
He was that clean.
Or I was slipping.
I replayed the gala in my head. Every look. Every step of the dance. Every word he said with that voice like a dare.
He’d known. From the start. That I wasn’t just here for the mission anymore.
That I was chasing him, not just the case.
And maybe I hated that he could see it clearer than I could.
I dropped the photo on the counter and opened the drawer beside it.
Inside, still untouched, was a case file marked “Target 07: Montecillo.”
My official assignment.
It suddenly felt useless.
He wasn’t a target. Not anymore.
He was a storm. And I’d walked straight into the eye of it.
I sat on the floor. No lights. Just me and the sound of my heartbeat.
How many lines had I crossed already?
Unreported contact. No footage. No backup.
I wasn’t following protocol anymore. I was following him.
And the worst part?
He knew it.
I looked back at the photo again. Stared at it longer this time. At the angle. The focus. The light behind my shoulder.
And then I saw it.
A reflection.
Faint. Blurry. But unmistakable.
His silhouette.
Standing in the background. Hidden in plain sight. Watching me from behind a marble column.
He wasn’t taunting me.
He was showing me.
Telling me where he was.
Where he still is.
Not far.
I stood, grabbed my keys, and didn’t bother to change.
If he wanted to be seen…
I’d give him exactly what he asked for.
1:12 a.m. — BGC Rooftop Parking Deck
I parked three blocks away from the coordinates I pulled from the photo. The reflection behind me matched a distinct marble pattern used in Monterro Tower’s connected garage. Private level. Closed after hours.
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
But I wasn’t following rules anymore.
I was following instinct.
And instinct was screaming his name.
The stairwell smelled like rain and rust.
By the time I reached the rooftop deck, the city was stretching wide and sleepless around me. Neon signs blinked across skyline glass. Wind cut across the empty floor. No cars. No sound.
Just one figure.
Leaning back on the hood of a black motorcycle.
Gloveless. Maskless. Moonlit.
Him.
Ares Montecillo.
And this time, he didn’t smile.
He watched me walk toward him with that same unreadable stare — part challenge, part confession. Like he already knew I wouldn’t pull the gun. That I couldn’t.
I stopped ten feet away.
“You left me the photo.”
He nodded.
“You wanted me to follow.”
“Obviously.”
Silence stretched between us, sharp and soft at the same time.
“You’re not running,” I said, voice low.
“I ran long enough.”
“Why stop now?”
He tilted his head, studying me like a puzzle he’d already solved.
“Because you don’t want to catch me tonight,” he said. “And I don’t want to leave.”
My pulse jumped.
It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t a trap.
It was a truth I didn’t know what to do with.
I stepped closer.
Close enough to see the slight bruising on his knuckles.
Close enough to smell the smoke on his jacket.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “The heists. The taunting. Me.”
His eyes darkened. For once, his voice dropped all the teasing.
“I was already wanted,” he said. “I just chose who I wanted to be wanted by.”
My breath caught in my throat.
He took a single step forward. No sudden moves. No threats.
Just presence.
Dangerous and devastating.
“You don’t know what side you’re on anymore, do you?” he asked.
“I know enough,” I said, lying.
Because in that moment, I didn’t know if I was supposed to cuff him…
Or kiss him until the city disappeared.
And the worst part?
He knew that, too.
- Writer
