The door to the secret wing opened with a hiss of chilled air, the scent of sandalwood and imported alcohol drifting out like a promise. A long hallway, wrapped in velvet panels and golden sconces, led to a sunken lounge dripping in decadence. Three escorts lounged lazily around a plush, U-shaped couch. The lighting was dim, set to a soft rose hue that made everything feel half-dream, half-sin.
John was already there—shirt unbuttoned, hair messed up, one arm around a curvy blonde whose laughter dripped like honey. His face was flushed, half from wine, half from victory. He turned lazily as Marco and Ethan stepped in.
"Gentlemen!" John said, raising his wineglass like it was the sword of destiny. "I don't know if I'm dead or if this is just heaven with better music!"
Marco chuckled and dropped himself onto the massive couch like a king arriving to claim his pleasures. His suit jacket hit the floor. The moment he sat, two butlers moved with trained precision, pouring crystalline wine into glasses that cost more than most people's salaries.
"Ethan," Marco said with a grin, reaching for a glass. "This is freedom. This is what power tastes like."
The three remaining women straightened with feline grace, sensing fresh blood. One with caramel skin and smoky eyes slinked her way toward Ethan, fingers dancing along the hem of her silk robe.
"You're tense," she whispered, her voice like a violin in smoke. "Let me fix that."
Her fingers glided along his chest. Ethan didn't flinch—he didn't even blink. Inside, he was calm. Sharp. Calculating. A glacier beneath the bonfire.
He allowed her hand to trail lower, just enough. The game demanded that. But as her palm reached his beltline, he gently took her wrist, holding it like a delicate contract.
"Not tonight," he said softly, almost apologetically. "But you're stunning."
She blinked, surprised but not offended. She was trained for rejection cloaked in reverence.
Marco, meanwhile, had already buried his face between two breasts, laughing as he devoured their scent and softness. "Ah, Vale. Always the monk with a blade. Suit yourself. But one day," he said mid-suckle, "you'll stop playing god and just be man."
Ethan gave a small smile, tucked his hands into his pockets, and stepped out.
His phone lit up as he walked down the hallway.
Leona Joey: West Wing, Room 47. Come quiet. I couldn't sleep.
He paused. The air outside the wing hit him harder than expected—cool, fresh, real. He returned briefly to his own room, cleaned up, changed into a charcoal-black shirt with a low collar and sleek dark trousers. The moment he stepped out, the hallway lights dimmed like the mansion itself approved.
The West Wing was quieter, more intimate. The music from the beach had faded to a heartbeat. When he reached Room 47, the door opened before he could knock.
Leona stood in the warm spill of golden lamplight.
She wore a deep crimson velvet dress, thin straps barely hugging her shoulders, the fabric flowing like melted wine across her curves. Her lips parted slightly when she saw him. She didn't speak.
Ethan stepped in, eyes locked to hers. He closed the door behind him with a quiet thud. A scent lingered in the room—jasmine, wine, and something unmistakably Leona.
"I thought you were asleep," he said.
"I was," she replied. "But then I remembered who I wanted to dream with."
She stepped closer, brushing his chest with her fingertips. Ethan's hand moved up, resting gently on her lower back. Their faces were inches apart now. Her breath warmed his lips, and for a moment, it felt like gravity was choosing sides.
"You're dangerous," she murmured.
Ethan smirked. "So are you."
Her mouth met his in a slow, controlled kiss. Nothing rushed. No teenage hunger. Just two flames testing how far the other would burn.
As they kissed, she pressed against him—bare feet gliding across the plush rug, her hands sliding under his shirt, nails grazing his back. The way she moved wasn't just passion—it was possession.
He guided her to the edge of the bed. She sat, her dress slipping up just enough to hint at the soft tension of her thighs. Ethan knelt slightly, trailing a kiss from her shoulder down her arm before meeting her eyes again.
"Are you sure?" he asked, voice steady but low.
"I should be asking you that," she replied, breathless.
Their next kiss was deeper, slower. She leaned back, pulling him on top of her, her hands cradling his face as if he were something sacred.
And yet—behind his eyes—Ethan was still watching.
Not cold. Not manipulative.
Focused.
He understood what this meant to Leona. The rhythm, the weight of her touch, her whispered wants—this was more than physical. For her, this was a claim. For him, this was a move.
He pulled away gently after a while, lips brushing her collarbone, and laid beside her, hand in hers. Her head rested on his shoulder, one leg draped over him.
"I know what you're doing," she said softly, tracing circles on his chest.
"What am I doing?"
"Trying not to fall… while already halfway down."
Ethan smiled without answering.
Outside, the waves hit the beach with a lazy hush. The stars above the West Wing glimmered like they were watching something ancient unfold.
And Ethan, in that soft moment, recalled a line from the Gita:
"Calmness in action is mastery; mastery in desire is freedom."