Noah hated parties. Especially the kind where everyone had better shoes and fake laughs. But Max had shoved a VIP pass in his hand, told him to stop being a starving artist cliché, and pushed him into the private rooftop gallery before he could object.
"I'm leaving in an hour," Noah muttered, checking his cracked phone. Max had vanished.
"Then make it a good hour," someone said beside him.
Noah turned.
The man was tall, wearing all black, and he was drinking a pricey glass. His voice was smooth.made individuals move to grant him space without knowing why.
"You don't seem like you need to be here," the man included, observing Noah like he was a puzzle.
"I don't," Noah said," Noah said honestly. "But the wine's free, and I was promised shrimp."
The man smiled. It was sharp. Private.
"I'm not here for the wine," he said.
Noah raised a brow. "Then why are you here?"
A pause. Then: "Maybe I was waiting for something worth staying for."
Noah's stomach flipped. His brain, against all better judgment, stopped resisting.
They didn't talk much after that.
He remembered hands brushing his wrist. The elevator button is lighting up. The hotel door swung open. The press of bodies. Teeth. Cloth half torn, half pulled. A whispered, "Turn around," that made Noah's knees go weak.
He didn't ask his name. The man didn't ask his.
Maybe that's why it felt real.
Stripped of identity, all they had was sensation—heat, breath, the sound of the city muffled behind glass as the stranger dragged his mouth down Noah's neck like it was a promise. Noah moaned when fingers tangled in his hair, when hips met hips, when teeth grazed his shoulder just before—
"Don't stop," Noah gasped.
The man didn't.
Not until Noah's back arched, his voice broke, and the world narrowed into nothing but the rhythm between them.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't polite.
But it was everything.
He woke up alone.
Pillow cold. The room is empty. No note. Fair the waiting throb of something that shouldn't have mattered but did.
Noah didn't know if it was 2 a.m. or twelve. I didn't care. He pulled on his dress, snatched his sketchpad from the floor, and cleared out without looking back.
Two weeks afterwards, Noah stood exterior the reflected campaign of Cross & Inlet, hands sweating through his jacket sleeves.
This was it.
He'd been shortlisted after three years of ghosted portfolios and coffee-fueled rejection. Now he had five minutes to prove he wasn't just another starving creative with opinions and nothing to show for it.
The receptionist scanned him in. Elevator. Floor thirty-four. Every step sounded louder than it should.
A young assistant smiled too brightly and led him to the boardroom. "Mr. Cross will be in shortly."
"Thanks," Noah said, and wiped his hands on his jeans when she turned away.
Then the door opened.
Noah turned to greet whoever walked in.
And froze.
The man in the custom fitted charcoal suit didn't move at to begin with. Not one or the other did Noah.
Because the man from the inn room—the one who had touched him like he needed to memorise the shape of his bones—was standing right there.
Buttoned up. Composed. Cold.
Noah's heart dropped.
The stranger looked through him like they'd never met.
"Mr. Blake," he said. Voice precise. No warmth. "We've been expecting you."
What the actual hell?
Noah forced a breath. "Nice to meet you… Sir."
Sir? Really?
The man—Julian, apparently—sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled.
Noah sat inverse, spine straight, stomach flipping.
The pitch went on. Someone from HR said something about company values. A design director flipped through Noah's mockups. Questions. Notes. Polite nods.
But all Noah could focus on was himself.
The man who had wrecked him in a hotel bed and was now pretending it had never happened.
At the end of the meeting, Julian rose.
"Thank you, Mr. Blake. We'll be in touch."
That was it.
He turned and walked out.
Not a flicker of recognition. Not a word.
Noah stepped into the elevator and nearly laughed.
What was he expecting? A wink? A secret smile? A memory?
Instead, he got dismissed like a temp.
"Asshole," he muttered to the mirror.
But deep down, something churned.
Because the way Julian looked at him—like he was nothing—hurt more than it should.
And worse?
Noah still wanted him.
He got the job three days later.
The email was formal. Clean. Start date. Contract. Signature.
No mention of that night.
Just terms.
Noah signed.
Because he needed the job.
Since he required answers.
And since a little, traitorous portion of him needed to know what would happen the following time they were alone.
He didn't have to hold up long.
On his moment week, after-hours, the organization floor was calm. Everybody had gone domestic. But Julian.
Noah came back for his tablet, but found the CEO in the conference room, gazing out the window like the horizon had insulted him.
Julian turned. Their eyes met.
For a second, neither spoke.
Then Julian said, voice low: "Close the door."
Noah did.
Julian didn't move.
"About what happened," Noah said, hands in his pockets, "you don't have to pretend."
"I'm not pretending," Julian said.
"You're acting like you don't know me."
Julian's eyes were incoherent.
Noah stepped forward. "You think that night didn't matter?"
"I think it can't," Julian said.
Noah stared at him.
Then laughed, once. Bitter.
"You're a coward."
Julian flinched.
"Let me be clear," he said, walking past Noah toward the door. "If you want this job, this conversation never happened."
He opened the door. Left Noah standing there.
A contract.
No promises.
Just silence.
Noah didn't sleep that night.
He replayed everything. The way Julian touched him. The way he looked at him. And now this cold, corporate stranger is demanding denial.
Fine.
Two could play that game.
But if Julian thought Noah was going to stay quiet, stay obedient, he didn't know a damn thing.
Noah wasn't going to be another pretty thing Julian used once and discarded.
He'd earn his place.
He'd rise.
And maybe, when the moment came, he'd be the one walking out.
But what Noah didn't know—what Julian had buried deep beneath the marble coolness of his life—was that he did remember.
Every detail.
And it scared the hell out of him.