The Forbidden Game

His Turn (Cole's POV)

Cole

I didn't sleep either.

Not because I couldn't. Because I wouldn't let myself.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. The way she'd looked at me in my apartment. The way she'd said, "You're not as cold as you pretend to be."

She saw too much.

That was the problem.

I sat in the dark of my penthouse, the city glittering beneath me like a thousand tiny lies. I'd built this life from nothing. Every brick, every wall, every carefully constructed piece of armor.

And one woman had already started chipping away at it.

I ran a hand through my hair and reached for the glass of whiskey I'd been nursing for the past hour.

She's a liability.

She's the key to everything.

Stay focused.

The mantras didn't help.

Because the truth was, I didn't just need her for the game anymore.

I wanted her.

And wanting someone was dangerous.

Morning arrived too quickly.

I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my tie. The man staring back at me looked the same as always. Cold. Controlled. Untouchable.

But I knew better.

I grabbed my phone and typed the message before I could stop myself.

Cole: Breakfast. 8 AM. Don't be late.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Isabella: I don't eat breakfast.

I almost smiled.

Cole: You do now.

She showed up three minutes late.

I watched her walk through the door of the café, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe. Even exhausted, even clearly running on fumes, she was beautiful.

She sat across from me, and I slid her coffee toward her.

"Vanilla latte."

She blinked. "How did you know—"

"You told me last night."

I watched her process that. Watched her try to figure out how I remembered something so small.

I didn't tell her the truth.

The truth was, I remembered everything about her. Every word. Every gesture. Every flicker of emotion across her face.

Because she was the first person in years who'd made me feel something real.

"You also told me you don't eat breakfast," I said. "But that's because you're too busy running on caffeine and stress."

She opened her mouth to argue.

I cut her off.

"I'm not criticizing. I'm observing." I slid the coffee toward her. "You need to eat. You'll think more clearly."

"I think clearly just fine."

"On an empty stomach?"

She didn't answer.

Because she knew I was right.

The morning dragged on.

I sat through meetings I didn't care about, nodding at people I didn't respect, pretending to be the man they thought I was.

But my mind wasn't on the boardroom.

It was on her.

I found myself outside her office at noon. She was staring at her laptop, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed together. She hadn't touched her coffee.

She hadn't eaten breakfast either.

I pushed the door open.

"We have lunch reservations."

She looked up. "Excuse me?"

"Lunch. Reservations. You."

"I'm busy."

"You're staring at the same email you've been pretending to read for the past twenty minutes."

She froze.

I almost smiled.

"I told you. I observe."

"How long were you watching me?"

"Long enough to know you're not getting any work done." I stepped closer. "Come on, Isabella. Take a break."

"I don't take breaks."

"Then consider this part of the act."

She opened her mouth to argue.

I raised an eyebrow.

"If anyone's watching, they need to see us together. And they need to see us looking like we actually enjoy each other's company."

"You make that sound impossible."

"I make it sound like work." I held the door open. "So let's get to work."

Lunch was a mistake.

Not because she was difficult. Not because the food was bad.

Because she looked at me the way no one had ever looked at me before.

Like I was worth understanding.

The restaurant was quiet. Private booths. Candlelight. The kind of place where people went to have affairs. I'd chosen it deliberately, it would look good for the act.

But I hadn't expected to actually want to be there.

"Are you going to stare at me all afternoon, or are you going to eat?" she asked.

"I'm not staring."

"You were definitely staring."

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

She hesitated.

Then: "About last night."

Something shifted in my chest. Brief. Fleeting. Gone before I could name it.

"What about it?"

"You asked me my biggest fear." She set her fork down. "I told you. And then you told me yours."

"Yes."

"You told me you're afraid of needing someone."

I didn't deny it.

"That's not something you share with just anyone."

"No."

"So why did you share it with me?"

I was quiet for a long moment.

Then: "Because you asked."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're going to get."

She studied me.

I could feel her eyes on my face, searching for something. I didn't know what. I wasn't sure I wanted her to find it.

"You're not as cold as you pretend to be," she said.

I set my fork down. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"Isabella—"

"You push people away before they can get close. You use control as a shield. You build walls so high no one can reach you." She leaned forward. "But last night, you let me see something real."

I stared at her.

She wasn't afraid.

She wasn't backing down.

She was the first person in years who wasn't afraid of me.

"And what exactly did you see?" I asked.

She held my gaze.

"A person. Not just a suit."

I should have ended the conversation there.

Should have shut it down, changed the subject, reminded her this was just a game.

Instead, I smiled.

Real this time.

Small.

Almost reluctant.

"You're dangerous, Isabella."

"Because I can see through your walls?"

"Because I'm starting to want you to."

Her breath caught.

I saw it. The way her chest rose and fell. The way her eyes flickered with something she was trying to hide.

She felt it too.

The realization hit me harder than I expected.

The drive back was quiet.

I kept my eyes on the road, but I could feel her beside me. Her presence filled the car in a way I couldn't explain.

"Cole?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not pretending this is something it isn't."

I was quiet for a moment.

Then: "I don't know what this is, Isabella. But I know I'm not pretending anymore."

I looked at her.

She looked back.

And before I could stop myself, I reached for her hand on the console.

She didn't pull away.

Later that night, I sat in my office, staring at the file.

The one that started all of this.

I could still destroy her with it. Could still end her career. Could still walk away and pretend she never mattered.

But I knew I wouldn't.

Because somewhere between the threats and the blackmail and the walls I'd built, something had changed.

She wasn't just leverage anymore.

She was the only person who'd ever made me feel like I didn't have to be cold.

And that terrified me more than anything.