Irresistible Desire: The Cold Boss's Obsession

Elysium is Neo City's most prestigious jazz bar, with saxophone melodies flowing like honey between the chrome stage, leather booths, and walls of whiskey. Crystal chandeliers cast an ambiguous glow in the smoke, martini glasses are shaken, and eyes glance behind the curtain—all waiting for the mysteriously veiled resident diva, whose real name no one knows, but whom guests call Scarlett. Lila Montgomery stepped onto the stage in stiletto heels, the hanging spotlight casting stardust over her silver-gray backless dress. The clinking of glasses came to an abrupt halt as someone knocked over an absinthe bottle, which shattered crisply in the silence. Her burgundy nail-polished fingers brushed against the rim, and she winked lazily at the console, “Maestro.” This girl of Irish ancestry was born dangerously beautiful, with upturned, diaphanous purple eyeliner lining her gray-green pupils with increasing bewilderment. As When I Fall in Love spilled from her throat, cigar smokers in the second-floor booths peeked out, their silver lighters blossoming with blue flames. As the resident singer, it was a rule to accept toasts from guests, and as Lila sipped her fourth shot of tequila, her mascara smudged small shadows across her eyelids. Her gaze skimmed over the colorful faces in the crowd: the custom cufflinks of a Wall Street nouveau riche, the emerald ring on an aristocrat's fingertip, and the flickering lenses tucked away in the shadows. As the last sip of tequila seared her throat, her diamond-encrusted wristwatch told her it was past midnight—and the man who'd promised to pick her up still hadn’t shown up. Behind the bar, Mr. Donovan wiped the crystal glass for the third time. The owner of Sicilian ancestry had promised her an early night, but for the moment, Lila still had the Maplewood Hotel room card in her pearl clutch, a birthday present for her boyfriend, Ethan Grant. Yesterday in her Fifth Avenue apartment, the blonde man had nibbled on her earlobe and murmured, “I want you to tie yourself in ribbons.” As the pianist began to play the intro to Fever, Lila finally caught a glimpse of the figure in the corner—Ethan Grant, leaning against the column with his Ascot scarf loosened, the tips of his oxfords tapping to the beat, his ice-blue pupils flickering in and out of the neon. As he tilted his head back to drink from his glass, the curve of his throat rolled in a way that reminded Lila of the way he'd ripped the collar off his riding suit in the Central Park stables the night they'd first met. “This song is dedicated to the gentleman who drank his loneliness away alone.” Lila’s lace gloves pointed into the shadows, her voice like coffee laced with bourbon. “Burning Love, dedicated to your never-cooling...” She paused deliberately, her tongue flicking her shell teeth, “Body heat.” To the sound of whistles and stomping feet, Ethan unbuttoned his suit and rose. His stance as he walked reminded Lila of the cheetahs of Corsica—expensive leather shoes stepping over rose petals all over the floor, only to stumble half a step in front of the stage. A detail that made Lila frown; the Wall Street investment banking elite she knew so well never allowed themselves to be out of shape. “Take me.” The tulip glass Ethan handed her held an amber-colored liquid, unusually hot when her fingertips touched. Lila hesitated. “You always said I should drink less…” Before the words left her mouth, she was already dragged off the stage, her twelve-centimeter heels wrenching on the crack of the steps. The moment she fell into his arms, she caught a glimpse of the maple leaf badge on the driver’s chest in the stretch Lincoln outside the door. “Maplewood Hotel,” Ethan commanded, causing cold sweat to seep down the back of the driver’s neck. The moment the backseat privacy divider rose, Lila’s pearls snapped in response, tumbling crystal beads bouncing off the leather seat. As his palm probed the hem of her skirt, Lila suddenly pressed down on the old scar—a scar from a polo match three weeks ago, now smooth as ever. The neon glinting through the window illuminated the mole behind the man’s ear, where it should have been, and Lila’s fingernails pinched deep into her palm as the car's fragrance—mixed with the unfamiliar scent of cologne, which the real Ethan Grant had never used, more than cedarwood balm—reached her nostrils. His tongue delved into her mouth, stealing her breath as she tasted faint bourbon on his lips. He tangled with her tongue, savoring the sweetness that belied her smoky stage persona. Scarlett Stone pushed him away weakly, chest heaving, cheeks flushed under her makeup. "Not in front of the driver..." she murmured, voice breathless. His gaze sharpened—this woman, who owned the room with a single glance, now trembled like a debutante. The contrast intrigued him. Her heavy eyeliner and scarlet lipstick were a shield, he realized, hiding the softness beneath. When she nestled into his shoulder, asking why he’d gone silent, he stiffened, annoyed by how her scent—lily, and vanilla, even under powder—unsettled him. At the hotel, he practically dragged her through the lobby, her heels clicking urgently as she struggled to keep up. In the elevator, bright light finally revealed the tailored suit she didn’t recognize, the silver cufflinks glinting unfamiliar. "Since when do you wear Italian silk?" she slurred, brow furrowing. He just smiled, a cold curve that didn’t reach his eyes. The suite was opulent—crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, and a king-sized bed draped in ivory linen. Scarlett staggered back, sobering slightly. "Ethan, this is too much..." His name on her lips made him flinch, but she didn’t notice, too busy staring at the marble bathroom. He pressed her against the wall, kissing her roughly until she gasped, then ordered, "Shower. Now." In the steam of the bathroom, she shed her sequined dress, still dazed. When she emerged in a plush robe, he was on the balcony, cigarette glowing—Ethan hates cigarettes, she thought vaguely. His back was turned, but she saw the faint scars crisscrossing his shoulders in the moonlight—Ethan’s skin was unmarked. He turned, eyes darkening at the sight of her bare face, hair damp and loose. Before she could speak, he yanked the robe open, revealing the curve of her collarbone. That’s when she saw it—the jagged scar across his ribs, a map of violence Ethan never had. "Wait—" she whispered, hand trembling as she pressed against his chest. The muscle beneath was harder, more defined, the heartbeat under her palm a stranger’s rhythm. "You’re not—" His smile vanished, eyes narrowing as he pinned her wrists above her head. "Shhh," he breathed, but she fought harder, panic rising. "Ethan doesn’t smoke! He—he has a mole here," she gasped, kicking at his shins, "and you—you smell like cedar, not sandalwood—" Recognition flickered in his eyes, too late. She shoved again, harder, and his grip slipped. "Who are you?!" she screamed, scrambling back on the bed, robe falling open, chest heaving. For a heartbeat, he just stared, jaw clenched, before reaching for the bedside lamp. The last thing she saw before darkness was the cold glint of his gaze—and the absence of the tiny mole beneath Ethan’s left eye.