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The voice slices through the heat like a blade, and Aria freezes—body still trembling, slick, Adrian’s fingers still inside her, and fuck—her heart just stops. The desk under her thighs is cold, sharp against her skin, but she’s too dazed to move, still drowning in the aftershock of whatever just tore through her five seconds ago. Her shorts are twisted around her ankles. Her tank’s halfway up her ribs. She’s bare. Exposed. And someone’s watching.

"Aria—" Adrian doesn’t even finish her name. His body moves before his mouth does—he steps in front of her, shielding her like it matters, like it’s not too late. His hand's still on her thigh, firm, claiming her like a goddamn brand. Her skin burns where he touches her. Shame slams into her, thick and heavy, but her body’s betraying her all over again—still wet, still buzzing, like her nerves didn’t get the memo that they’re supposed to panic now.

The air shifts. Smells like sweat. Whiskey. Sex. And something colder now—mockery. Judgment.

Then he steps into the light.

And her stomach drops like a body through water.

Tall. Cocky. Expensive-smelling. The kind of smirk that strips you naked without even looking. And he is looking. Right at her. Like she’s just roadkill on silk sheets.

“Didn’t know you were into cradle-snatching, Cross,” the guy says, voice slick with poison. “What is she—eighteen? Nineteen? Bet her daddy would’ve been real proud of this moment.”

Aria chokes.

No air. Just noise. Dad’s face flashes—smiling. Bleeding. Dead. Her chest twists like it’s trying to rip itself open, and her fingers scramble for fabric—anything—but she’s shaking too much to grip her shirt. She wants to scream. Scratch his eyes out. Hide.

But all that comes is this hot sting behind her eyes and the disgusting, horrible throb between her legs that won’t shut off.

“Who the fuck—” Adrian growls, deep, sharp—his body coiled like a trap. But he doesn’t move his hand. Still clutching her thigh like he’s got any right.

“Marcus,” he spits like a curse, and Aria’s gut twists at the name.

“Mm.” The man—Marcus—smirks wider, stepping closer, slow. Deliberate. “It’s always the quiet ones, huh? You think you can fuck your dead best friend’s daughter in a goddamn office and it won’t come back to bite you?”

He looks at her again. That look. Like he’s peeling her skin back.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he says, almost gentle now, which somehow makes it worse. “You look like you don’t even know what game you’re playing.”

“Don’t—” Her voice cracks. Too soft. Too late. “Don’t talk to me.”

Her hands won’t stop sweating. Her palms are sticky. Vision’s blurry. Like her brain's short-circuiting and all she can feel is heat and shame and the urge to run. But she’s not moving. She’s leaning into Adrian like he’s safe—like he didn’t just make this whole mess worse. God, what’s wrong with me?

“She’s none of your damn concern,” Adrian snaps, and his grip tightens. Just enough to bruise. To remind her that he’s still here. That maybe she’s his, even now.

Marcus laughs—sharp and mean. “Oh, I think it’s my concern when you’re doing it on my damn property. You forget who holds the leash now?”

The words land like punches. Aria's breath stutters. She feels sick. Like she’s gonna puke, right there, on the desk they just—God.

“What the hell is he talking about?” she whispers, yanking at Adrian’s arm, nails digging in. Her voice is all broken edges, barely more than a breath. “Adrian, what—what is this?”

His eyes flash. Something tightens in his jaw. Fear. No, not fear. Something worse. Guilt?

“Not now,” he mutters, low, like it’ll make her shut up.

It doesn’t.

Her mind’s spiraling—Dad’s death, Adrian’s offer to let them stay, the way he stood too close to Mom at the funeral, the way his hand’s still—still—on her.

Marcus steps back, smug as ever. “You kids enjoy your little meltdown,” he says, strolling out like it’s just another Tuesday. “I’ll be in touch, Cross. Try not to choke on your secrets.”

The door shuts behind him with a click that feels louder than a gunshot.

Then… silence.

Heavy. Suffocating. No more mocking laughter, just this awful ringing in Aria’s ears, and the smell—sex and shame and liquor and paper and heat.

She shoves Adrian off, hands trembling, legs unsteady as she slides off the desk. Her shorts catch around her ankles again, and she almost falls, catching herself on the corner of the desk.

“What was that?!” Her voice cracks open, raw and jagged. “Who the fuck was that?! What secrets?!” She’s panting now, everything too fast—breath, heart, thoughts.

Adrian moves toward her.

She stumbles back.

“Don’t,” she snaps, but her voice sounds small. “Don’t fucking touch me. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

He stops.

And there it is again—that flicker of something in his eyes. Not rage. Not shame. Restraint. Like he’s holding back a goddamn war inside himself.

“Aria…” he says it slow, careful. “You don’t need to know everything yet.”

She laughs. A hysterical, wet, broken sound. “Bullshit,” she bites out, and now the tears are coming—hot, ugly, furious. “You don’t get to fuck me on your desk and then lie to my face. What did he mean? Was it about my dad?”

Her voice snaps. Like elastic pulled too tight.

“Did you—did you do something to him?”

His face flickers. Just for a second. Something cracks, and she sees it—raw and bleeding—but then it’s gone. He’s stone again.

“Don’t go there,” he says, voice suddenly low and dark.

“Then TELL ME!” she screams, shoving him with both hands. He doesn’t move. Just grabs her wrists, holds them like anchors. Not hurting her. Just keeping her from floating off.

She’s sobbing now. Like her whole chest is splitting open. Like her ribs are broken glass. “You used me,” she chokes out. “You used me, and I let you. I fucking wanted it, and that’s the worst part—”

He grabs her face, and for a second, she thinks he’s gonna kiss her. Crush her mouth with his. Make it worse.

But he doesn’t.

“I’ll tell you,” he says finally. But it’s not a promise.

It’s a warning.

“Just… not tonight.”

His thumb brushes her wrist. That soft touch again—wrong. Gentle where he should be gone.

“You’re gonna go back to your room,” he murmurs, “and keep your mouth shut.”

She rips her arm from his grip. Staggers back.

“No. No, fuck that—I’m not your—your thing you just use when—”

She stops.

His phone’s buzzing.

She turns, brain still scrambled, and sees the name flash on the screen.

Elena.

Her mother’s name.

She goes still.

Her whole body locks up.

“What the fuck,” she whispers, barely hearing her own voice. “Why’s Mom texting you?”

Adrian doesn't move.

Doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t answer.

And the silence that follows?

It’s worse than anything Marcus said.