Chapter 13: The Prelude to Milan
The morning sky over Blackwood Tower was the color of a fresh bruise, heavy with clouds that hadn't yet decided whether to break. Adrian stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the city churn below, his reflection a ghost superimposed over the glass. He hadn't slept again. The same nightmare had played on loop behind his eyelids—Evelyn's face, Raven's voice, the two of them bleeding into each other until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
His coffee had gone cold in his hand. He didn't remember pouring it.
The door opened without a knock.
"Mr. Blackwood."
He didn't turn. He couldn't. Because he knew that if he looked at her, he'd lose the thread entirely.
"Raven."
She moved through the room with that feline grace, the click of her heels a metronome against the marble. He heard the soft thud of files hitting his desk, the rustle of fabric as she bent to arrange them. Her perfume reached him before she did—something dark and floral, like night-blooming jasmine laced with smoke.
"Milan's all set," she said, her voice smooth as poured cream. "Flights are confirmed. Hotels are booked. The Galletti Group's expecting us at their headquarters Tuesday morning."
"Good."
"Your passport's in the top drawer of your desk. I checked."
He finally turned. She was standing beside his chair, one hand resting on the leather back, her dark eyes fixed on him with that unnerving stillness. She wore a charcoal dress that hugged her like a second skin, her hair swept over one shoulder in a cascade of black silk.
"You look like you haven't slept," she observed.
"Been busy."
"Busy." A small, knowing smile curled the corner of her mouth. "Is that what we're calling it?"
His jaw tightened. "Is there something else on the agenda?"
She picked up a manila folder from the stack, flipping it open with deliberate slowness. "Just the final contract revisions. The Galletti consortium wants an exclusivity clause for the Milan skyline project. I flagged it for you, but honestly, it's boilerplate. They'll move on it."
"That it?"
"That's the business stuff." She set the folder down, and her eyes met his with an intensity that made his skin prickle. "I also wanted to confirm—you're all packed?"
"Evelyn packed for me. Last night."
He didn't know why he said it. Maybe to remind himself. Maybe to remind her.
Raven's smile didn't waver. "How is Evelyn?"
"Fine."
"She's a lovely woman." Raven walked around the desk, her fingers trailing along the edge, leaving a ghost of her scent in the air. "I can see why you married her. Soft. Warm. The kind of woman who packs her husband's suitcase without being asked."
Adrian's grip tightened on his coffee cup. "What's your point?"
"No point." She stopped at the corner of his desk, facing him, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her near-black irises. "I just thought you might want to know—I've packed something special for the flight. A little insurance, in case you get bored of first-class amenities."
His mouth went dry. "Raven."
"Yes, Mr. Blackwood?" Her voice was pure honey, but there was a blade underneath.
"You're playing a dangerous game."
"I'm not playing anything." She tilted her head, and her hair shifted over her shoulder, revealing the sharp line of her jaw, the hollow of her throat where a tiny pulse beat. "I'm just being honest. You're the one who's been lying to everyone—including yourself."
"I haven't—"
"You have." She stepped closer, and he instinctively stepped back, his heel hitting the baseboard behind him. She didn't stop until she was directly in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her skin. "You think I haven't noticed? The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. The way you find excuses to have me stay late. The way you told me to prove my devotion—"
"That was—"
"That was you, Adrian." Her voice dropped, soft and intimate. "You asked me to cut ties with everything I had built. You wanted me to prove that I'd choose you over anyone else. And when it came time to do the same, you folded."
He wanted to deny it. He wanted to scream, to push her away, to call her a liar. But the words died in his throat, choked by the truth of what she'd said.
"I didn't fold," he managed. "I just—"
"You just what? Remembered you had a wife? Remembered your vows?" Her laugh was quiet, almost sad. "That's cute, Adrian. Really. But you forget—I can read you like a book. I saw the way you looked at me after Milan was confirmed. The hunger in your eyes. The same hunger that made you fuck your wife while thinking about me."
The air left his lungs. "How do you—"
"Because I know you." She reached up, her fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, adjusting it with a tenderness that felt like a threat. "I know that you're a man of appetites, Adrian. And I know that you're starving."
Her hand dropped to his chest, pressing flat against his heart. He could feel the warmth of her palm through the fabric, could feel his own pulse hammering against her touch.
"Milan will be a feast," she whispered. "But only if you're brave enough to take the first bite."
She stepped back, and the spell broke. He sucked in a breath, suddenly aware that he'd been holding it.
"The board meeting starts in an hour," she said, her tone shifting back to professional. "You might want to freshen up before then. You look like you've seen a ghost."
She walked to the door, her hips swaying just enough to draw his eye. He watched her go, his body aching with a want that made him nauseous.
She paused at the threshold, one hand on the frame, and glanced back over her shoulder.
"Oh, and Adrian?"
"What?"
The smile she gave him was sharp enough to draw blood.
"Pack light. You're going to need the space."
She left, and the door clicked shut behind her. The silence that followed was deafening.
Adrian stood there for a long moment, his hand pressed to his chest where her palm had been. He could still feel the ghost of her touch, could still smell her perfume hanging in the air like a verdict.
He crossed to his desk, opened the top drawer, and stared at his passport. His fingers brushed against the edge of something else—a small, silk-wrapped package that hadn't been there before.
He didn't open it. He already knew what it was.
His phone buzzed. A text from Evelyn.
Have a safe flight tomorrow. I love you.
He stared at the words for a long time, the cursor blinking on the screen, waiting for a reply he couldn't give.
---
That night, Adrian found himself in the bar across the street from the tower, nursing a whiskey he didn't taste. The place was dim and quiet, the kind of establishment where nobody asked questions and nobody remembered faces.
He was two drinks in when his phone buzzed again.
Raven: A preview of Milan. Hope it fits.
He opened the message. Attached was a photo—dark silk, black lace, and the hint of pale skin. He slammed the phone face-down on the bar, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth.
"Another," he told the bartender.
The whiskey arrived, amber and burning. He downed it in one swallow, welcoming the fire in his throat.
His mind was a battlefield. Evelyn's soft smile. Raven's knowing eyes. Evelyn's tears. Raven's whispered promises.
Milan will be a feast.
He paid his tab and stepped out into the cold night air, the storm finally breaking overhead. The rain fell in sheets, soaking through his jacket, plastering his hair to his forehead. He didn't run. He just stood there, letting the water wash over him, trying to drown the silence in his head.
By the time he reached his car, he had made a decision.
Not the right one. But a decision nonetheless.
He'd go to Milan. He'd meet with the consortium. He'd do his job.
And then, he'd see what Raven had packed for him.
His phone buzzed again as he pulled into his driveway.
Raven: See you at the gate, Mr. Blackwood. Don't be late.
He looked up at the dark windows of his house, where Evelyn was waiting for him, warm and trusting and utterly unaware.
Then he typed a reply.
Wouldn't miss it.