Maya’s POV
I can't stay away from him.
I tell myself I'm going to the kitchen for water. It's two a.m. The house is silent—that particular stillness that only exists in the small hours, when the world feels suspended between one day and the next.
I just need water. That's all. A glass of water and then back to bed.
The fact that Archie has been taking late-night kitchen breaks at exactly this hour is coincidence. The fact that I know his schedule down to the minute is professional awareness.
Nothing more.
I pad down the hallway in bare feet, my silk robe tied loosely over the tank top and shorts I sleep in. The marble floor is cool beneath my soles.
The darkness wraps around me like a cocoon, hiding me from the security cameras I've memorized, from the household staff who sleep in the east wing, from everything except my own treacherous heart.
He's already there when I enter.
Leaning against the counter in a worn t-shirt and gray sweatpants, a glass of whiskey in his hand, shadows carved beneath his eyes.
The kitchen light is off—only the glow from the hood vent illuminates him, casting half his face in gold and leaving the rest in darkness.
He looks up when I appear. Neither of us pretends surprise.
"Why don’t you sleep?" His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in hours.
"Water." I gesture vaguely toward the cabinet. "I just needed water."
"At two in the morning."
"Hydration doesn't follow a schedule."
"No." His lips curve slightly. "I suppose it doesn't."
The kitchen feels smaller at night. The shadows press in from every corner, collapsing the space until the island between us seems like an inadequate barrier.
The distance shrinks without either of us moving—or maybe we are moving, maybe we've been moving toward this moment since the day I walked through the front door.
I cross to the cabinet. Reach for a glass.
He moves at the same moment, reaching for the same cabinet—for the whiskey bottle, I realize, to refill his own glass. Our hands brush against the wooden door.
Neither of us pulls away.
His fingers are warm against mine, slightly rough, callused in ways that speak to a life before boardrooms and security systems. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, pooling in my chest, making it hard to breathe.
"Maya." His voice drops lower. "We should probably talk about what's happening here."
"Nothing's happening."
"Liar." He says it gently, without accusation. "Something's been happening since the supply closet. Maybe before that. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise."
"I'm not pretending anything."
"Then why are you here?" He sets down his whiskey glass with a soft clink. "Why do you know exactly when I come to the kitchen at night? Why do you show up at two a.m. in a silk robe, looking at me like…"
"Like what?"
"Like you want me as much as I want you."
The words hang in the air between us. Confession and accusation wrapped together.
I should deny it, should laugh it off, make some deflecting comment about professional boundaries, and retreat to my room before this goes any further.
Instead, I hear myself say: "And if I do?"
Something shifts in his expression. The careful control he maintains—the easy charm, the professional distance—cracks open, revealing something raw and hungry beneath.
His hand rises slowly, deliberately, giving me time to pull away, to stop this, to be the sensible one.
I don't move.
His fingers trace my jaw—featherlight, questioning. The touch is barely there, ghosting along the line of bone, but it sets my entire body on fire.
My breath catches. My hands find his shirt, fisting in the soft cotton, pulling him closer without my permission.
"Tell me to stop." His voice is barely a whisper. "Maya, tell me to stop and I will. I'll walk away. We'll pretend this never happened."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want you to stop."
His forehead presses against mine. We're breathing the same air now, sharing the same want, balanced on a knife's edge neither of us can step back from.
His other hand finds my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel his heart pounding through his chest—fast, desperate, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
"Maya." My name in his mouth sounds like a warning, like he's telling me to run while I still can.
"Archie." His name in mine sounds like a prayer, like I'm asking for something I have no right to want.
His lips hover over mine. So close I can almost taste him—whiskey and warmth and something uniquely him. His fingers tighten on my jaw.
My hands clench harder in his shirt. The moment stretches, infinite and impossible.
We stop just short of the kiss—hovering, trembling. The restraint costs us everything.
I can feel it in the tension of his body, the shudder of his breath, the way his thumb strokes my cheek like he's memorizing the feel of my skin.
"We can't do this," I whisper. The words feel torn from somewhere deep.
"I know."
"It would ruin everything."
"I know."
"I'm not—" My voice cracks. "I'm not who you think I am."
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes search my face, and I see it again—that flicker of doubt, that instinct he's been fighting.
He knows something is wrong. He's known for weeks. And he's choosing to ignore it because he wants me more than he wants the truth.
"Then tell me who you are." His voice is quiet. Gentle. "Whatever it is, whatever you're hiding—just tell me. Let me help."
For one terrible moment, I almost do.
The words rise in my throat. ‘I'm Lora Morrison's sister. I came here to destroy this family. Everything between us has been built on lies, and I don't know how to stop anymore.’
But saying them would end everything. Would shatter whatever this is between us before it even begins. Would turn him from the man looking at me with tenderness into the enemy I'm supposed to be fighting.
I can't. I can't do it.
I pull away first. Step back until the counter presses against my spine, until there's distance between us again.
"Goodnight, Archie."
"Maya…"
"Goodnight."
I leave before he can respond. Return to my room on shaking legs, my lips burning with a kiss that never happened.
In the hallway, I pass the master bedroom.
The door is cracked—just an inch, but enough. Through the gap, I hear Xander's voice—low, tender. Murmuring something I can't quite make out, words meant only for his wife.
Daphne laughs softly. The sound is intimate, unguarded—the particular laugh of a woman who feels completely safe, completely loved, completely cherished.
I press my back against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.