Lila didn't break stride.
Not when she passed him.
Not when his gaze slid across her like a velvet blade.
Not even when her body tightened with awareness in places she refused to acknowledge.
But three turns later—once the hallway fell silent behind her and no more staff wandered into view—her breath finally loosened.
She leaned gently against the wall, folder pressed to her chest.
God, what was that?
That wasn't just tension. That was tension dressed in a tailored suit with haunted hazel eyes.
Her lips curved—slowly, slyly.
She had felt his eyes burning through every fiber of her blouse, every sway of her hips. He didn't touch her. Didn't stop her. But oh… how he looked.
It made her stomach flutter—and twist all at once.
She wasn't supposed to enjoy this.
She was supposed to stay focused, professional. This whole game—if you could call it that—started with a scent. A ghost of a man. And now? That ghost had a face. A voice. A body she couldn't forget even when she blinked.
But Lila Penrose didn't fold.
She adapted.
She evolved.
And right now? She was winning.
He wanted her. She knew it.
But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Not yet.
She adjusted the maroon blouse at her shoulder, exhaled softly, and began walking again—slow and purposeful.
Let him unravel.
Let him wonder what she was thinking.
Because Lila wasn't just walking away anymore…
She was leading him.
---
The door clicked shut behind him.
Rowan stood in his office, the glass walls casting long shadows on the floor. Sunlight caught in streaks across his polished desk, his cufflinks glinting dully as he unfastened them with more tension than precision.
His jaw tightened.
He hadn't said a word to her. Not one.
And yet it felt like she'd peeled him open with nothing but a glance. A movement. The way her scent brushed past his skin like fingertips. The echo of her hips. That goddamned half-smile she wore like a crown and a weapon.
He rubbed the space between his brows. Useless. The pressure behind his eyes remained.
You're not a boy, Vale.
But he felt off-kilter. Like she'd walked through the middle of his controlled chaos and rearranged everything just by existing.
Lila Penrose.
Even her name sounded like silk caught on something sharp.
He should've stopped her in the hall. Should've addressed the simmer. The shift in dynamic. But he didn't.
Why?
Because some part of him—dark, quiet, ancient—liked it.
Liked watching her walk away.
Liked imagining how her body would move under far less fabric. Liked remembering the way her mouth looked parted in the steam of the pool. The way her spine arched when she danced. The curve of her waist. The tilt of her chin.
And now?
Now that same mouth had walked past him as if he were no more than glass.
He could still feel her in the room. And she hadn't even stepped inside.
Rowan's hand tightened around the edge of his desk, knuckles paling.
"Keep it together," he muttered.
But even his voice sounded strained. Useless. A lie wrapped in a tailored suit.
He stepped to the window, staring down at the city. L.A. pulsed below—alive, unforgiving.
Just like her.
---
Two months earlier.
Rowan's office was dim, quiet, late into the evening. A half-empty tumbler of scotch rested beside a stack of resumes.
He didn't usually read them himself. His assistant filtered them, shortlisted the top three. But tonight, he needed the distraction.
Another file.
Another name.
Penrose, Lila M.
Rowan paused—not because of her qualifications, though they were clean and structured. Not because of her headshot, though there was a clarity in her blue eyes that felt uncomfortably steady.
It was something else.
Something he couldn't place.
A whisper of a memory—maybe from the elevator lobby last month. A scent. Warm, feminine. Sharp, then gone. It lingered in his mind longer than it should have. He hadn't seen the face, just the retreating shape of a woman in a silk scarf and boots. He remembered the sound her heels made on marble. Crisp. Assertive.
Could it have been…?
He shook the thought off. Tapped the folder once on the table and set it in the "maybe" pile.
Then he forgot it.
Or tried to.
Because even then—on paper—something about her clung to him. A tension he didn't know how to name.
---
Back in the present, the irony now clings like heat.
The woman he nearly dismissed?
Is the one whose silence now haunts his thoughts.
---
The door swung open without a knock.
As usual.
"Bro," Nico drawled, stepping into Rowan's office like it was his own. Aviators pushed up onto his head, one hand in his pocket, the other holding an iced espresso like he'd just walked off a yacht—because he probably had.
Rowan didn't turn from the window.
"You do realize doors exist for a reason."
"Sure," Nico said with a shrug. "But then I wouldn't catch you brooding like a rejected Shakespeare character."
Rowan exhaled sharply through his nose. "I'm working."
"Are you?" Nico circled him, gaze narrowing. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're mentally undressing your assistant in 4K."
Rowan's jaw clenched. "She's not my assistant."
"Right. She's the walking fire hazard in heels and red lipstick that makes even you forget how to type."
Rowan turned, slow and deliberate. "What do you want, Nico?"
"To witness a man fall," he grinned, throwing himself into one of the leather chairs. "You, my friend, are circling the drain."
"Professional boundaries—"
"Have already left the building," Nico cut in. "I saw the way you looked at her at the pool. Like you were five seconds away from dragging her into a cabana and forgetting how vowels work."
Rowan gave him a look. Cold. Controlled. Useless.
"She's playing you, by the way," Nico added, sipping his drink. "And she's good at it."
Rowan didn't answer. Couldn't.
Nico leaned in, grinning.
"So what's the plan, big guy? Keep pretending you don't notice her? Keep letting her waltz in here looking like temptation in human form while you clutch your morals like a rosary?"
A long beat.
Then Rowan's voice, low and unreadable:
"She wants me to break first."
Nico's smile widened. "Then God help the room when you do."
---
Rowan didn't move. He just stared—out the window, at nothing, everything.
"She's not just playing," he finally said, voice quiet. "She's… deliberate."
Nico's brow lifted, amused. "Deliberate is code for dangerous."
Rowan's fingers curled slightly against the glass. "She doesn't speak to me, Nico. Not really. Just… looks. Walks. Exists."
"And that alone has you sounding like a man one wrong look away from worship."
Rowan turned to him now, something unfamiliar glinting behind his usually impassive eyes.
"It's not worship," he said. "It's war."
That made Nico pause. For once.
Because underneath that calculated poise, Rowan Vale—unshakable CEO, stoic king of control—was burning.
"You sure you're not already losing?"
Rowan didn't answer.
And he didn't have to.
His silence said more than a confession. The way he sat on the edge of restraint. The way he inhaled like he was holding back a storm.
"She's smart," Rowan murmured. "She knew exactly what she was doing in that swimsuit. And that wink? That wasn't flirtation. That was power."
Nico let out a slow whistle, eyes gleaming.
"Man, you're in deep."
Rowan loosened his tie. Barely. "Deeper than I planned."
Nico stood, walked to the bar, and poured two fingers of scotch into a crystal glass. He held it out.
Rowan took it.
"Men like us don't fall easy," Nico said.
"No," Rowan agreed. "But when we do…"
Nico lifted his glass.
"…we don't get back up the same."
Clink.
The sound echoed softly in the stillness.
---
The scotch didn't help.
Neither did the cold shower.
Or the second workout.
Or the way his mind played her exit from the pool in slow, looping flashes—water cascading over caramel skin, eyes closed like sin didn't scare her, hips moving like the world owed her attention.
Rowan sat on the edge of his bed, tie undone, shirt wrinkled. The quiet of the house mocked him.
He hated this.
This… lack of control.
He didn't let women rattle him. Not in the office. Not in life.
And yet—Lila Penrose had carved her name somewhere between his pulse and reason, and he wasn't sure which would give first.
Her glance in the boardroom.
That smile at the pool.
And now the dreams—uninvited, unwelcome, and utterly consuming.
He leaned back against the headboard, jaw clenched.
She was too damn good at this.
He wasn't losing.
He was already lost.
---
Meanwhile – Lila's Apartment
Piper froze mid-sip of wine, her magazine falling flat against her lap.
"Lila Penrose…" she whispered, eyes wide, "are you trying to get arrested for manslaughter?"
Lila stepped out from the bedroom like a sin dressed in satin and strategy. Her black short gown clung to her body like it feared no other place would ever be as worthy. The hem teased her thighs, barely grazing the edge of her black lace pantyhose, a sheer suggestion of trouble with every stride.
A cream coat hung off her shoulders, effortless. Untouchable. Like a woman who didn't walk through storms—she summoned them.
Her high messy bun revealed the elegant column of her neck, one silvery earring twinkling with every turn. Her cheeks were contoured like art, lips a soft nude gloss meant only for torment, and her eyes?
Untouchable. Commanding.
And then—the perfume.
It hit like memory and lust collided. Soft, woodsy, a dark amber sweetness that lingered long after she passed. It was Rowan's cologne turned against him. But sharper. Seductive. The female version of obsession itself.
Piper exhaled slowly, standing. "You're not going to work, are you?"
Lila smiled faintly, pulling her coat tighter.
"No," she whispered. "I'm going to remind the devil how it feels to kneel."
---
Rowan hadn't planned to be there.
He wasn't the type to frequent the lounge levels of Astoria Grand on weekends. Not with so many eyes, so many distractions. But Nico had dragged him—something about needing to "loosen the starch in his collar."
He leaned against the marble bar, nursing his usual—neat, no garnish, no nonsense. His mind, of course, wasn't where it should be. It hadn't been for weeks.
And then—she happened.
He felt her before he saw her.
A hush rolled through the space like the volume dialed itself down. He turned.
And there she was.
Lila Penrose. A vision in that black gown—short, sharp, merciless. The sheer pantyhose gleamed under the dim gold light. That cream coat, loose over her shoulders, told stories of softness draped over danger. Her hair: a high, messy bun that begged to be undone by hands that didn't deserve her.
And that scent.
Her scent.
It didn't just arrive—it invaded. A perfume that lured his pulse to quicken. That clung to the back of his throat like a memory he never earned.
Rowan's jaw clenched.
She hadn't seen him yet. Or maybe she had. She was always three moves ahead, wasn't she?
She passed close. Close enough that the silk hem whispered against her thighs. Her heels echoed like an anthem down marble. Their eyes met.
Just for a heartbeat.
Her glance didn't say hello.
It said, You see me. You want me. But you don't have me.
And just before she passed fully—
She turned her head over one shoulder, only slightly, lips parting for the barest smile.
Not warmth. Not interest.
Power.
Rowan exhaled through his nose, slow. His hand tightened around the glass. And for the first time in years, the great Rowan Vale wasn't thinking of work.
He was thinking about war.
And how badly he wanted to lose.
---
Lila doesn't just exist in the room—she curates it. Every step is deliberate. Every look is disarming. Rowan may be watching—but Lila? She's playing chess in stilettos.
She walked like she owned the marble under her feet. Like the chandeliers glittered only because she had entered. Like every man in that room had once loved a woman who tried to be her—and failed.
Lila slid onto a velvet barstool like a poem landing on a page. Her legs crossed with precision, the slit in her gown giving a glimpse of toned skin wrapped in patterned lace. The bartender didn't even ask—he simply handed her a glass of white wine with trembling hands.
She didn't look around for anyone.
Not for approval.
Not for attention.
Not even for him.
And that's what made Rowan unravel a little more.
He watched from across the room, his pulse now out of sync with logic. Nico, by his side, chuckled under his breath. "Still convinced she's not playing the long game with you?"
Rowan didn't respond.
Because just then—Lila did something that ruined him.
She dipped a single manicured finger along the rim of her wine glass. Slow. Sensual. Mindless, yet lethal. Her expression never changed. She didn't even look up.
But he felt it.
Like that motion had been a whisper straight across his skin.
And then her phone buzzed. She picked it up, smiled faintly—probably Piper—and leaned back with the ease of a queen surveying her empire.
Rowan stood.
He hadn't meant to.
But he did.
He moved across the lounge, footsteps silent, gaze locked. Not to speak. Not to engage. Just to pass behind her. To remind himself that this was real. That she was real. That the tension stretching between them wasn't a trick of obsession—but something worse.
Something mutual.
He passed her.
She didn't turn.
But as his cologne swept by her, she smiled again, a little slower this time.
And whispered, under her breath,
"Just his cologne…"
---
Rowan didn't stop.
He didn't speak.
He didn't even glance back.
But everything in him screamed stay.
Instead, he slipped deeper into the lounge, disappearing behind gilded curtains and velvet shadows, where the air didn't choke on perfume and tension. Where his control still had a chance to breathe.
Back at the bar, Lila sipped her wine. Slow. Poised.
She knew he'd passed. She could still feel his presence lingering in her bloodstream like caffeine and danger. His cologne now lived in the threads of her coat, the corners of her mind.
But she didn't turn either.
That would have given him too much.
Let him wonder.
Let him feel it.
Let him burn.
Piper arrived moments later, breathless, lips already moving in chatter, but paused when she caught the wicked glow in Lila's eyes.
"You saw him again, didn't you?" Piper whispered.
Lila took another sip, gaze fixed ahead.
"I didn't need to," she said coolly. "He saw me."
Piper smiled like someone witnessing art. "And?"
Lila set her glass down, wiped the condensation from the base with a napkin, and whispered,
"Now he'll dream in color. But I won't paint it for him."
---
Rowan stood in the shadows of the upper lounge balcony, one hand gripping the brass railing, the other curling into a fist at his side.
He wasn't watching her.
Not exactly.
He was watching the ripple she caused.
Lila Penrose didn't just move through a room—she rearranged it. Like gravity bowed differently where she stood. And somehow, the air had become thick with want and memory and the perfume she wore that made his thoughts feel... unprofessional.
He tilted his glass. Empty.
Of course it was.
She hadn't turned around once. Not even when he passed close enough for her to hear his heartbeat. He was sure she heard it. Because he could still hear hers.
It echoed in the silence between them. A language of almosts.
Nico appeared beside him, smug with bourbon and mischief. "Tell me again how this isn't driving you insane."
Rowan didn't answer.
Nico smirked. "You're the king of steel nerves and silk suits. But one woman in lace and lipstick is about to bring your empire to its knees."
Rowan's jaw tensed. He straightened his tie as if it would tie his sanity back together.
"She hasn't said a single word to me."
"Exactly," Nico replied, sipping. "That's the genius of it."
Below, Lila laughed at something Piper said. Rowan felt it in his spine.
Nico clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, brother. Every queen makes her king wait."
Rowan exhaled through his nose, turning back toward the exit.
"She's not a queen," he murmured.
Nico raised a brow. "No?"
Rowan's lips twitched at the corner, the faintest betrayal of a smile. His voice dropped, low and rough.
"She's a goddamn war."
---