Inside the suite, Simon laid Vivian gently on the bed.
Her hair spilled across the pillow in a dark, silken mess.
“So hot… I want water…” she murmured, clutching his arm.
Her cheeks glowed like ripe apples, lips dry and parted.
“Wait here. I’ll get you some,” he said, pulling the silk quilt over her and heading for the kitchen.
The apartment had been unused for months,
though the cleaning service kept it spotless.
He rummaged through the cabinets for a glass, only to find the water dispenser empty.
With a sigh, he filled a kettle and set it to boil.
When he returned—she had kicked the blanket off again.
His eyes widened briefly.
He rushed to cover her back up—
—but before he could, a pair of hot hands wrapped around his waist,
pulling him down.
Their skin touched.
Simon froze.
“You’re cold,” she murmured, pressing closer. “Feels nice…”
He braced himself above her, breathing hard,
the fire in his chest threatening to break loose.
“Do you know,” he said roughly, “what it means when you do this to a man?”
He loosened his collar, trying to breathe. He was barely holding on.
“Water…” she whispered again.
Before he could move, her lips parted,
and his restraint snapped.
The kiss was fierce, consuming—
she clung to his neck, and her scent drove him to the edge.
And then—
he stopped.
Years of discipline kicked in like cold water.
Simon pulled away, sitting up, chest rising and falling.
No matter how drunk she was, he would not take advantage.
Not until he knew everything—
why she had been in his hotel room that night,
why she had looked at him later as if he were a stranger.
Until those answers came, he couldn’t let himself fall.
He looked down at her—
the curve of her lashes, the soft pink hue of her cheeks.
She was beautiful, yes, but not in a dangerous way.
She was like a lily in sunlight—pure, unguarded.
She had already fallen asleep.
Simon pulled the blanket over her again and quietly left the room.
In the living room, the kettle clicked off.
He stared at the steaming cup of water and sighed.
“Guess I’ll drink it myself,” he muttered.

Morning light spilled across Vivian Wen’s face.
She blinked awake—then winced as a sharp pain stabbed behind her eyes.
Bits of memory came back: the bar, the men, Simon appearing out of nowhere to save her…
She bolted upright.
Had she—had they—?
She peeked under the covers. Her clothes were still on. Relief—and confusion—flooded her.
But she remembered his lips.
The heat. The kiss.
“Oh no…” she groaned, covering her face.
Heart pounding, she slipped out of bed, straightened her dress, and opened the door.
The smell of breakfast wafted through the apartment.
In the kitchen stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, sunlight tracing the line of his back.
He was wearing a linen apron, calmly flipping eggs in a pan.
“Mr. Min?”
He turned at the sound of her voice.
“You’re awake,” he said with a faint smile, spatula in hand.
The warmth of the moment was utterly unlike the cold, composed man she thought she knew.
Seeing her surprise, Simon added lightly,
“When I’m not busy, I prefer to make my own breakfast.”
Vivian bit her lip, eyes darting everywhere but his.
“Um… Mr. Min, last night… did we… what exactly happened between us?”