****Sarah's Pov****
"Who is it?" I called out, my voice echoing lightly through the bathroom. I had just heard my door open and close.
I quickly reached for the handle and shut the bathroom door behind me, heart beating just a little faster. Once I was done with my shower, I grabbed the towel hanging from the hook and wrapped it around my body.
Stepping out carefully, I peeked through the doorway, scanning my room.
It was empty.
But as I took a few more steps in, something caught my eye—the door was slightly ajar, and the key had been left in the lock.
Someone had definitely been here, I thought to myself as I sharply locked the door.
*********
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring into nothing, everything from last night replayed in my head like a slow-burning movie I couldn't switch off.
That wasn't the Sam I thought I knew. The man who's always so cold, so calculated—what I experienced last night was something else entirely.
There was hunger in his touch, something possessive in his stare, something that pulled me in and refused to let go.
And me? Where did I even summon the courage to say those things to him? To beg him to touch me?
My cheeks flushed at the memory, and I buried my face in both palms, groaning softly into my hands.
"I feel so ashamed," I whispered to myself. But even as I said it, I could still feel the ghost of his lips on my skin… the way he whispered like he owned me.
I fell back on the bed, a sigh escaping me like a wave of heat. My legs kicked slightly against the sheets as I rolled from side to side, frustration and something far more dangerous bubbling beneath the surface.
God, if he touches me again—if he even dares—I'm not sure I'd stop him. I know I wouldn't.
All those plans about saving myself for marriage… they're hanging by a thread.
My fingers curled into the sheets. I was burning. Not just from what he did… but from what he didn't do. From what I wanted him to do.
I closed my eyes tightly and bit down on my lip, hard—trying to shake off the image of his mouth on my neck, the way his hands knew exactly where to go.
It was too much. Too vivid.
I twisted onto my side, hugging a pillow to my chest like some young teenage girl with her first crush—only it wasn't a crush. It was… obsession. Desire. Need.
And no matter how hard I tried to deny it, deep down I knew—I was already slipping.
And falling.
Falling fast.
**********
I spent most of the morning locked away in my room. After a long nap, I finally decided to take a slow walk toward the living room. I had deliberately skipped lunch—guilt from all the recent indulgence without a single workout creeping in. A part of me wanted to ask Sam if he'd help me out with one… but that would mean talking to him. And after last night, I wasn't ready for that.
The living room was stunning—spacious, refined, and warm in the most unexpected way. Sculptures adorned every corner, each one telling a story of power, legacy, and taste. There was no television in sight, but the beauty of the room made you forget anything else existed. It was like stepping into a private museum curated by a king.
One particular statue caught my eye. It was tall, imposing—almost regal. A man carved out of marble, his expression as intense as it was calm. He looked eerily like Sam. Could it be his father? A brother? At the foot of the sculpture, an engraving in gold read: Lauret. I froze. That was the same name I saw engraved on the hotel Sam took me to.
Is that his family name? I thought, my fingers gently brushing the base of the sculpture, curiosity twisting inside me.
"Clears throat."
A voice behind me startled me out of my thoughts.
"Why wouldn't you eat lunch?" came Sam's voice—smooth, cool, but unmistakably him.
My heart skipped. Then it raced. I turned slowly, catching sight of him leaning against the wide doorway, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers. His eyes were on me, unreadable.
"I... I'm working on my diet," I stammered, fingers fidgeting as I tucked loose strands of hair behind my ear.
He studied me for a second, then asked, "So what would you like to eat?"
What? That question… from him?
I blinked, stunned.
Before I could process an answer, he added, "How about we head out? To a nice eatery."
"Uhn?" I echoed in surprise.
"Let's go," he said, signaling with his hand before turning and walking away.
"Okay…" I whispered under my breath, trailing behind him like a confused puppy.
We didn't head to the garage like I expected. Instead, he paused just outside the building and stretched out his hand toward me.
"Give me your hand," he said simply.
I hesitated, then placed mine in his. His palm was warm, strong—commanding. Without another word, we began to walk. No car. Just the two of us, strolling side by side down the cobbled path that led deeper into the estate.
"I figured the walk might help," he said.
And that's when it hit me—this was his way of helping me work out. A small smile crept onto my face. He listened. He actually listened.
How sweet, I murmured to myself, stealing a glance at him. Our palms remained locked as we walked, ignoring the tension humming quietly between us, the silent throb of the moment we hadn't addressed since last night.
Sam didn't speak much, but I could feel his glances. Soft, deliberate side glances that made the hair on the back of my neck stand. The estate air felt warmer somehow, or maybe it was just the weight of his presence.
The eatery came into view—a charming, upscale bistro nestled within the estate walls. At the top, etched elegantly across the front in gold: Lauret.
My eyes widened slightly. That name again.
"Is Lauret your surname?" I asked as he opened the glass door for me.
His eyes briefly flickered to mine, lips twitching at the corners, but he didn't answer. Not yet.
Inside, the ambiance was luxurious yet intimate. Waiters spoke rapid French as they moved about with practiced elegance. The moment Sam stepped in, heads turned. One of the staff, a tall, graceful woman in black, greeted him with a soft "Bonjour, Monsieur Lauret," before escorting us to a private booth lined with velvet cushions and gold-trimmed menus.
He is a Lauret.
Sam conversed with the waitress in fluent French, his deep voice low and confident. I didn't understand a word, but the way he spoke made it sound like music.
When it was my turn, I simply said, "I'll have what he's having."
Moments later, a beautifully arranged plate was set before me. It looked like a delicate pasta dish, but when I glanced at the name, it read Tagliatelles aux truffes blanches.
It tasted divine. Earthy, creamy, luxurious. I caught him watching me as I took a bite—his eyes unreadable but intense.
Neither of us spoke of the night before. Not directly. But the weight of it hung between us. In the way his fingers occasionally drummed against the table. In the way I avoided locking eyes with him too long.
In the way I kept remembering the feel of his lips.
And yet, there was something tender about this moment. The quiet care beneath his calm. The subtle way he made room for me without demanding I notice.
Maybe... he didn't need to say a word.
He already had me listening.