The scent of her father's cigars had burrowed into her hair, into the weave of her blouse, into the pores of her skin. Esme stood in the middle of her apartment, the door locked behind her, the air-conditioning raising goosebumps along her arms. She had not moved since closing the door. The argument was still playing in her skull, his voice calm and certain, the way it always was, the way it always had been, even when she was a child and he was explaining why she could not have the thing she wanted.

"What do you more want from me, baba?"

The words had come out of her cracked and desperate, and he had only looked at her with those grey eyes, patient as stone.

She pulled the blouse over her head and let it fall to the floor. The bra followed. The skirt pooled at her feet. She stood in the middle of her living room in nothing but her underwear, the chill of the apartment pressing against her skin, and she could still smell him on her. Could still hear his voice, the way he had leaned forward in that worn leather chair, the cigar burning in the ashtray beside him.

"He can't hurt you, Esme."

"You don't know him." Her voice had cracked on the words. "You don't know what he's like when—"

"When what? When he's betrayed?" Her father had steepled his fingers, studying her like she was a quarterly report. "I know exactly what he's like. I've made it my business to know. He's ruthless, yes. Cold when he needs to be. But he's not a monster, Esme. He's a man who has never been allowed to trust anyone. And you—" He had almost smiled. "You are the first person he has trusted in years. That is not nothing."

"You're using that against him."

"I'm using it to save us."

She had wanted to scream at him. Had wanted to grab the cigar from his hand and crush it into his perfect pinstripe suit. But she had only stood there, her hands shaking at her sides, because he was her father and she had been raised to obey him, and somewhere beneath the rage there was still the little girl who believed he knew best.

The shower was hot. Almost too hot. Esme stepped under the spray and let it pound against her shoulders, her forehead, the back of her neck. Steam filled the bathroom, thick and white, and she stood there with her eyes closed, trying to wash the smell of him away.

But the words wouldn't wash off.

"What if Adil finds out and still doesn't want the baby?" She had asked it in the study, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if he hates me for it? What if he—"

"He won't."

"You don't know that."

"Esme." He had said her name like a door closing. "Listen to me. First, you will be carrying his child. No man—no man with any shred of decency—harms a woman carrying his child. And second—" He had paused, and for a moment something almost soft had crossed his face. "He's in love with you."

The water ran over her skin, and she pressed her palms against the tile, her arms straight, her head bowed. He's in love with you. Her father had said it like it was a fact, like it was leverage, like it was the final card in a hand he had been holding for years. And maybe it was true. Maybe Adil did love her. Maybe that was exactly why this was going to destroy him.

She turned off the water and stood in the steam, dripping onto the bathmat. The mirror was fogged, and she wiped a hand across it, clearing a streak of glass. Her reflection stared back at her—wet hair plastered to her shoulders, hazel eyes bright with something she didn't want to name. She looked like herself. She felt like a stranger wearing her own skin.

"Two days," she whispered to the mirror. "You had two days."

But the two days had passed, and Friday had come, and she had gone to her father's house, and she had argued, and she had lost. Or won. She couldn't tell anymore. The line between the two had blurred so completely that she wasn't sure it had ever existed.

She dried off with a towel that smelled like lavender fabric softener, the ordinary scent grounding her in a way the steam hadn't. The apartment was quiet around her, the air-conditioning humming through the vents, the city lights glowing through the windows. She walked naked to her bedroom, the cool air raising goosebumps along her thighs, and opened her closet.

Her hand moved past the work clothes, past the casual dresses, past the silk blouses she wore to meetings. It stopped on a hanger at the end of the rack, and she pulled it out.

The gown was deep burgundy, almost black in the low light of her bedroom. Net fabric over a satin slip, the kind of thing that caught the light when she moved, that showed more than it hid and hid just enough to make a man wonder. She had bought it weeks ago, before any of this had started, back when she had still believed she could do this without losing herself.

She slipped it over her head and let it settle against her skin. The satin was cool and smooth, the net whisper-light over her shoulders. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door.

The woman staring back at her was beautiful. There was no denying it. The gown clung to her curves, the deep burgundy making her skin look warm, her hair falling in dark waves over her shoulders. Her gold hoop earrings caught the light, and her hazel eyes—she looked like she belonged on a magazine cover.

She looked like a woman who was about to seduce her lover.

She looked like a woman who was about to betray him.

Esme turned away from the mirror, unable to look at herself any longer. She walked to the bed and sat on the edge of it, the satin whispering against her thighs. The sheets were cool, the pillows arranged the way she always left them, and she lay back, staring at the ceiling.

Her father's words echoed in her head again. "This is the only way to save ourselves." Save ourselves. As if she were the one in danger. As if she weren't the one holding the knife.

She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. The gown rustled against the sheets when she shifted, and she could feel her own pulse in her throat, steady and stubborn. She had made her choice. She had walked out of his study with her spine straight and her heart in pieces, and she had come home, and she had showered, and she had put on this gown, and now she was lying in her bed waiting for a man who had no idea that she was the enemy he'd been looking for.

The phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Esme's eyes flew open. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, her heart suddenly loud in her ears, and then she turned her head.

The screen was lit up. A notification glowed in the dark of her bedroom, and even from across the nightstand she could see the name.

Adil.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. The notification was still there, waiting, the message unopened. She could feel the weight of it in her chest, the weight of everything she had done and everything she was about to do, and she lay there in her burgundy gown, her hair still damp against the pillow, and she did not move.

Two weeks. Two weeks since she had first crossed the line in his office, since she had let him drive her home, since she had stood in this very apartment wearing his jacket and reading her father's message. Two weeks of nights in his bed, of his hands in her hair, of his voice saying her name like it meant something. Two weeks of lying to him with every breath.

The phone buzzed again. A second message.

She still didn't reach for it.

The apartment was silent around her, the only sound the hum of the air-conditioning and her own shallow breathing. She could smell the faint trace of her own perfume, the clean scent of the soap from her shower, and beneath it all, if she concentrated, the ghost of something else—Adil's cologne, still clinging to one of her pillows from a night he had spent here, a night that felt like a lifetime ago.

She had told her father she would do it. She had agreed to conceive Adil's child, to bind him to her with blood and obligation, to give her father the leverage he needed to tear the Kocari empire apart. And she had done it. On his boat, under the stars, she had let him take her without protection, had felt him spill inside her, had whispered his name against his skin while she betrayed him with every beat of her heart.

And now he was messaging her. Now he was reaching out, probably to tell her he missed her, probably to ask if she was okay, probably to say something tender and trusting that would make her hate herself even more.

The phone glowed in the darkness, patient and expectant.

Esme's thumb hovered over the screen.

She could still feel the ghost of her father's hand on her shoulder as he walked her to the door of his study, still hear his voice, low and certain, the voice that had been making decisions for her since she was a child. "You're doing the right thing, Esme. For the family. For yourself. He'll understand, in time. He'll forgive you."

She had wanted to laugh at that. She had wanted to scream. Adil Kocari did not forgive. He did not forget. He collected betrayals like other men collected vintage cars, and when someone crossed him, he made sure they never did it again.

But she had not said any of that. She had just nodded, and walked out, and come home, and showered, and put on this gown, and now she was lying in her bed with his name glowing on her phone screen and her whole life balanced on the edge of a decision she had already made.

The gown rustled as she shifted. The satin was cool against her thighs. The net over her shoulders caught the light from the street outside, and she could see herself in the mirror across the room—a dark shape in the darkness, a woman waiting for a message that would change everything.

Her hand moved. Her thumb pressed down on the screen.

The message opened.

Adil's message glowed on the screen, three lines of text that made her chest seize.

I missed you so much in these two weeks. Open the door.

Esme's breath caught. Her thumb froze over the screen, the words blurring as her eyes stung. Two weeks. He had counted them, marked them, felt every one of them stretch like she had. She sat up too fast, the burgundy satin whispering against her thighs, and stared at the bedroom door, then at the window, then back at the phone.

The door.

He was here. Adil Kocari was standing outside her apartment, on the other side of a door she had locked against the world, holding flowers—the message said flowers—and she was wearing a gown she had chosen to destroy him in.

Esme swung her legs off the bed. The satin slipped over her skin as she stood, cool and treacherous, and she walked barefoot across the hardwood, her heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. She didn't think. Thinking was the enemy. Thinking was what her father did, what Adil did, what the woman in the mirror did. She just moved, her hand finding the deadbolt, her palm flat against the cool metal.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Adil stood in the hallway, backlit by the dim sconces, a bouquet of deep red roses in one hand. He was still in his suit, the jacket discarded somewhere, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his tie loosened. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, like he had been running his hands through it, and his deep brown eyes found hers with an intensity that made her forget how to breathe.

"Esme." Her name came out of him like a release, like a sigh he had been holding for days. His gaze moved from her lips to her neck, then lower, tracking the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above the burgundy net. The air between them thickened, charged with something electric, something that stung her skin where his eyes touched.

He dropped the roses. They hit the doormat with a soft thud, petals scattering, and then his hands were on her, one fisting in her hair, the other gripping her waist, pulling her into him. His mouth found hers, and it wasn't a kiss—it was a collision, a declaration, two weeks of possession poured into the press of his lips against hers. Esme gasped against his mouth, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders, and he walked her backward into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind them.

"You have no idea," he breathed against her lips, "how much I—" He didn't finish. He buried his face in her neck instead, his mouth hot against her skin, his teeth grazing her pulse point. He inhaled like a starving man, like he was breathing her in, and Esme's head fell back, a sound escaping her that was half moan, half whimper.

"Adil—"

"Two weeks." His voice was rough, muffled against her throat. "Two weeks I've been going out of my mind, and you—" He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark, almost wild. "You didn't even text me back."

She opened her mouth to lie, to explain, to deflect—and he kissed her again, harder, swallowing whatever she might have said. His hand slid from her waist down to her hip, gripping the satin, and he made a low sound of approval at the feel of it beneath his fingers.

"This dress," he said against her lips. "Did you put this on for me?"

Esme's heart stuttered. Yes. No. I put it on to trap you. But his mouth was on her neck again, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin just below her ear, and she couldn't find the words. She just gripped his hair, her fingers tangling in the dark strands, and pulled him closer.

Adil made a sound—low, possessive, almost animal—and then he was lifting her, his hands under her thighs, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her into the living room. His steps were quick, urgent, carrying the weight of his need, and he dropped her onto the large sofa with a roughness that made her gasp. The satin rode up her thighs as she landed, the cool air hitting her skin, and before she could catch her breath, he was over her, his body a wall of heat and muscle.

"I missed you," he said again, the words almost angry. "I missed you so fucking much."

His palm slid down her body, over the burgundy satin, down her hip, and then lower, pressing directly against the center of her. The damp heat of her soaked through the thin fabric, and Esme's hips bucked involuntarily at the contact. He pressed harder, his fingers finding her through the silk, and began to move in slow, circular motions that made her legs tremble.

"You're so wet," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "So wet for me, and you didn't even text me back."

Esme's head fell back against the armrest. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt, and she bit her lip hard to keep from moaning. His palm pressed and circled, the friction of the satin against her clit sending sparks of pleasure through her, and she could feel herself getting slicker, wetter, the fabric darkening under his touch.

His other hand found her breast, cupping it roughly through the dress, his thumb finding her nipple and rolling it between his fingers. The double assault made her gasp, her back arching off the sofa, and a muffled moan escaped her lips despite her best efforts.

"Shh," Adil said, his breath hot against her ear. "You'll wake the neighbors." But there was a smile in his voice, a cruel, knowing edge. "You'll lose," he whispered, a warning. "You'll lose if you make a sound."

He increased the pressure of his fingers, pressing harder through the satin, and Esme bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. The pleasure was building, coiling low in her belly, and she was so close—so close—when he pulled his hand away.

"No—" The word escaped her before she could stop it, a desperate plea.

Adil's eyes glittered in the dim light. "No?" He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he was enjoying solving. "No what, Esme?"

She reached for him, her fingers finding his belt, fumbling with the buckle. "No more games," she breathed. "I need you. Now."

Something shifted in his expression—the hunger sharpened, the control frayed—and he moved, his hands finding the hem of her gown. He pulled it up, over her hips, over her breasts, and she lifted her arms to let him draw it over her head. The burgundy satin pooled on the floor, and he tossed it aside without a second glance.

He paused, his gaze raking over her body. She was in nothing but a scrap of lace and her gold hoop earrings, her skin flushed, her nipples peaked from the cool air. "You're beautiful," he said, the words almost reverent. "Every time. You're beautiful every time."

Then he leaned down, his lips finding her nipple, and Esme gasped, her hands flying to his hair. He sucked her into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak, and his left hand found her other breast, squeezing and caressing in rhythm with his mouth. Heat pooled between her thighs, and she could feel herself getting wetter, aching for him.

"Adil—" His name came out of her like a prayer, and he responded by moving lower, his mouth trailing down her stomach, his beard scraping against her sensitive skin. He reached her underwear, hooked his fingers into the lace, and pulled them down her legs, leaving her completely naked beneath him.

He didn't waste time. His mouth found her, his tongue flat against her slick folds, and Esme cried out, her hips bucking against his face. He lapped at her like she was something precious, something he had been starving for, and she could feel the vibration of his groan against her skin.

"You taste," he said against her, his voice rough, "like heaven."

His tongue circled her clit, slow and deliberate, and Esme's hand fisted in his hair, pressing him closer. She could feel the orgasm building again, coiling tight in her belly, and she let herself fall into it, let herself feel every stroke of his tongue, every scrape of his beard against her thighs.

His fingers found her entrance, sliding inside her with a slick, wet sound, and Esme's back arched off the sofa. He crooked his fingers, finding the spot that made her see stars, and she couldn't hold back anymore. A moan tore from her throat, loud and unrestrained, and she felt herself clench around his fingers as the orgasm crashed over her.

Adil didn't stop. He lapped at her through her climax, drawing it out until she was trembling, oversensitive, gasping for air. Then he pulled his fingers out of her, slick with her release, and brought them to his mouth, tasting her with a satisfaction that made her core clench again.

He stood, his hands going to his belt. Esme watched, her chest heaving, as he unbuckled it, unzipped his pants, and pushed them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, and Esme's mouth watered at the sight of it.

"I need you," he said, his voice rough. "I need to be inside you. Now."

Esme reached for him, her hand wrapping around his length, and he groaned, his head falling back. She stroked him once, twice, savoring the weight of him in her hand, and then she guided him to her entrance.

He pushed inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust, and they both moaned. He filled her completely, stretching her, and Esme's eyes rolled back in her head as she felt him deep inside her.

"Fuck," Adil breathed. "You feel—" He couldn't finish. He pulled out and thrust back in, harder this time, and Esme cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders.

"Ah—Adil—faster—" The words tumbled out of her, desperate and broken.

He obeyed. His pace quickened, his hips slapping against hers, and the sound of their bodies meeting filled the room. Esme's legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and she could feel herself climbing toward another peak, the pleasure building with every thrust.

"That's it," Adil growled against her ear. "Take all of me. Feel how much I missed you."

Esme's head fell back, her mouth open, sounds spilling out of her that she couldn't control. "Yes—yes—Adil—don't stop—"

He didn't. He drove into her with a rhythm that was both punishing and perfect, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She could feel the tension building, coiling tighter and tighter, and when he reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, she shattered.

Her orgasm ripped through her, her inner walls clenching around him, and she cried out his name as she came. Adil followed a moment later, his body shuddering as he spilled inside her, his groan muffled against her neck.

They lay there for a long moment, tangled together on the sofa, both of them breathing hard. Esme could feel him softening inside her, could feel the evidence of his release trickling out of her, and the weight of it settled in her chest like a stone.

Adil pulled out slowly, his forehead dropping to hers. "I missed you," he said again, softer this time. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't opened the door."

Esme's eyes stung. She blinked, and a tear slipped down her cheek, unbidden. He's in love with you. Her father's voice echoed in her head, and she wanted to scream.

"Hey." Adil's thumb caught the tear, his brow furrowing. "What's wrong?"

Esme shook her head, unable to speak. She couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell him that she was carrying his child—or might be—and that she had agreed to use it as a weapon against him. She couldn't tell him that she was Esme Furtuna, not Esme Çavuş, and that she had been sent to destroy him.

She kissed him instead. Deep and desperate, pouring everything she couldn't say into the press of her lips against his. And when she pulled back, she forced a smile.

"Nothing," she said. "I'm just—happy you're here."

Adil studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching hers. He didn't believe her—she could see it in the set of his jaw, the flicker of doubt in his gaze. But he didn't push. He just pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

Esme closed her eyes and let herself believe it, just for a moment. Let herself pretend that this was real, that she was just a woman in love with a man who loved her back, that there was no mission, no father, no deadline waiting in the shadows.

But the phone was still on the nightstand in her bedroom, the burner phone hidden in the kitchen, and her father's voice was still echoing in her head.

Two days.

The timer was still running.