February 5th, 2023 – Sunday Night | Mansion Rooftop
The sky wore a bruised violet—deep and indulgent—stitched with stars that blinked like secrets too old to name. Ethan Vale stepped barefoot onto the rooftop of the oceanside mansion, the linen robe slipping off one shoulder, brushing against his ribs like a lover's hand in retreat. The night's breath was thick and warm, wrapping around him, slick with salt and unseen promises.
The music had long drowned below. Now, only the hush of the waves and the long, low moan of the ocean wind remained—a sound like longing.
He didn't have to search.
At the far edge of the rooftop, where amber lanterns swayed with the breeze, Jonathan Barrett was already unraveling. Half-naked, half-gone. A young model writhed beneath him, her tattooed back arched like a bow, spine gleaming against the marble—wet, inked, ephemeral. Her moans were caught by the wind, scattered like perfume.
Ethan watched.
No judgment. Just knowledge. Appetite was the tax of power, and Jonathan—like most kings—fed on what he could not possess.
Ethan turned away, walking toward the far corner where the dark pressed in close and silence hung thick like velvet. He eased into a lounge chair, the cushions cool beneath his bare skin. Above him, the stars pulsed like open mouths. Before him, the sea stretched—black, endless, inviting.
The scent of salt hung in the air, mingled with jasmine incense and the faint musk of sweat clinging to his skin. It was memory and mood, body and ghost.
Then—a vibration.
His phone. A message, delayed by time but sharp in intention.
From: Amilia Barrett
Tent #167. Monday morning. Don't mention this to Jonathan.
He stared at the words, lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. He tapped Seen, then let the device fall back to the lounge beside him.
Some things were more honest in silence.
He reclined deeper, a hand drifting through his hair, catching at the roots with absentminded ease. Stillness wrapped around him, pulling him inward.
"In the other timeline, the markets had already collapsed by March.
In this one, the sky hadn't cracked—yet."
He opened his portfolio app. His thumb swept across the screen like a ritual. Graphs. Collapses. Anomalies. Whispers in the numbers. Silver was shifting. Biotech trembled. Familiar ghosts rose again.
The wings had started fluttering.
And this time, he was the storm.
A new ping.
From: Sienna
"Hey… haven't heard from you days. You okay?"
His eyes softened. Just slightly.
He typed back:
> "Long days, beautiful. Still breathing. You crossed my mind somewhere between the ocean and the stars. I hope your nights' easier than mine."
He sent it. Simple. True.
Then—another knock.
Soft. Delicate. Like a fingertip against a closed door.
She entered the lanternlight: the maid from earlier.
She moved like poetry in a quiet language. No unnecessary grace—just instinct, honed and holy. Her grey uniform fit like a second skin, smoothing over curves drawn by time and work, not vanity. Her dark hair was tied low, and the scent of something floral clung faintly to her—lavender, maybe. Or rosewater.
"Would you like full body massage, sir?" she asked, voice low and intimate, as if they were already alone inside the moment.
Ethan didn't speak—just nodded, slow.
She unfolded the padded table beside him. Everything she did had the rhythm of ritual. She warmed the oil in her palms—sandalwood, vetiver, and something deeper. Something that smelled like skin and fire.
He lay on the table, chest against cool leather, robe slipping off entirely. His body was lean, taut, a map drawn in muscle and memory. She began at his shoulders—slow, sure strokes that pressed into him with the confidence of someone who already knew where he broke.
But this was not duty.
This was attention.
Her hands explored, not just soothed. They lingered at the base of his neck, fingers sliding over the sensitive spine, then circling the tops of his shoulder blades, pressing into the muscle with purposeful care. Her palms moved lower, down the curve of his back, slow enough to make him ache.
The robe was gone now, and the night air kissed his bare skin. Her hands slicked across his sides, over the fine trail of hair that led down to where tension turned into something else entirely.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
She leaned in, close enough for him to feel the softness of her breath along the nape of his neck. Her chest hovered just above his back, warmth seeping into him. Her thighs pressed slightly against the side of the table, firm, real. Present.
She touched just above the swell of his hips. The space where body meets edge. Where control begins to slip.
He swallowed. Once.
Her thumbs began small, deep circles. Her hands moved like music—slow, sensual, and merciless in their patience.
"You hold everything here," she murmured, her lips near his ear. "You carry too much."
Still, he didn't speak. His breath told her everything.
Her fingers trailed downward—never crude, never obvious—just enough to send his spine arching, a whisper of pleasure wound through precision. She knew exactly how to give, and exactly how to withhold.
And that, more than anything, undid him.
She finished slowly, with one long glide of her hands from his shoulders to his waist, like she was sealing a spell. Then came the blanket—light, soft, warm from her hands. She draped it over him, smoothing it across his lower back, her fingers brushing along his waist, a caress disguised as duty.
She leaned down, her lips close to his ear, breath warm.
"Sleep well, sir," she whispered.
But the way she said it—there was intimacy in it. Like a secret passed between two bodies that hadn't yet fully touched.
And then—she was gone.
Ethan lay still. Awake. The stars above him pulsed like they knew.
His body was quiet now, but his skin remembered her hands.
Tomorrow was Monday.
Tent #167.
Amilia Barrett.
Another move, another tide.
But for now—just silence.
And a man made of heat, ambition, and shadow, resting on the edge where power and longing tangled like limbs in the dark.