Back in Bangkok, the air pressed close right away, like a door closing behind me. Before even getting near luggage pickup, warmth wrapped itself around my skin—sticky, slow, and laced with fumes and grilled meat from roadside stands, plus the sharpness of pavement still dripping from recent showers. The ocean wind from Koh Samet now felt distant, almost fake; here, breathing took effort. This place landed on me like something soaked through, hard to shake off. It bothered me how natural it felt returning, slipping without thought into routines I had meant to walk away from.
A silence settled around us, sharp and measured, like the climb meant something more. Upward we moved without sound, just the faint hum beneath our feet. Phakin stayed quiet—not a word, not even a glance my way. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, fingers moving slowly: swipe, press, repeat. Calm, like he'd never known fear. As though none of it had taken place—the shore, the storm, anything. Like the basement never existed. Like those shaking hours, his voice fraying into silence, pleading he wasn't ready—gone without a trace.
That silence grew heavier every second we rode up. Not money, not favors, not power made Phakin hard to face. What cut deepest? How could he stand so close, say nothing, and yet leave me stranded? Each floor brought less air between the walls and more distance between us. His skill—making loneliness feel like a presence.
When the doors opened into the foyer, he finally spoke, voice flat enough to cut. "I have meetings until midnight," he said without lifting his eyes. "Narong will send a stylist at six. There's a charity gala for the Architectural Heritage Foundation tonight. You will attend. You will look happy. You will play your part."
Off he went toward the West Wing, just as I started to speak, putting space between us as if it mattered. Almost like my presence annoyed him, some unwanted trace that refused to fade.
What, am I nothing more to you than this, Phakin? They came out fast, too late to pull back. My hand clamped down on his sleeve—suddenly, he wasn't moving.
Down at my hand his eyes went, then lifted to meet mine. Just a heartbeat—I saw him, the one from the shore, shaking near me, whispering he wouldn't release. Fleeting, thin as paper. After that, stillness returned: sharp, smooth, and closed off.
"You are a Rattana by name, Lalin," he said, clipped with control. "You are the face of this company. You represent my interests in public. Do not embarrass me."
Off came his shoulder, shaking loose my grip, and then he moved down the hall toward the west wing. Behind him shut those big doors—sounding like a judge's hammer falling.
Something broke loose in my chest when I touched the space by his cuff. The air stayed still after he left.
A movie scene might have felt less staged than the Grand Hyatt Erawan—light split by crystal fixtures danced on floors so smooth they mirrored everything. Silk mixed with glitter under sharp lighting, while glasses bubbled nonstop, as though magic kept them full. Wealth worn for generations shared space with freshly earned status; vintage fabric rubbed against runway pieces fresh off Italian ateliers. Conversations hummed, laced with deals too quiet to name, passing between slight grins and hands that barely touched.
A deep blue dress slid over my skin, picked by Phakin's stylist. Where it held tight felt intentional—not loud, but sharp. Each step opened the slit just enough to feel like breaking a rule. Cold weight pulled on my ears with every move; those diamonds whispered how much they'd cost compared to Dad's medicine. One glimpse in the mirror said I fit right in.
A quiet emptiness sat deep within me.
Through the room I drifted, half-awake: a grin here, a slight bow there, gripping palms of folks whose names slipped away like water. Lines came out one by one—flat, rehearsed—not mine at all but something borrowed from an old play. Sure, everything's great now. Not shocked? Never. We kept things quiet before this. Small ceremony—we chose that way just to keep others out.
Lies stacked on lies, smooth only because Phakin craved results above truth. Each falsehood slipped out just right—timing mattered more than honesty.
Across the room, he stood, not near me at all, surrounded by powerful talkers with agendas stacked high. Sentences spilled from him like decisions set in stone, altering paths without pause. That tuxedo fit like it was made to win wars. clean lines, quiet dominance. Eyes stayed forward, never drifting toward where I waited since stepping inside.
A shadow moved across the floor, slow, pulled by nothing. Wet darkness hung over the streets, still damp from earlier storms. Rail cold under my hands, sound rising from far below, filling the spaces where thoughts had been.
Out of nowhere, a sound spoke up, making my muscles recall what they knew.
"Lalin? Is that really you?"
Champagne paused near my mouth, cold against the air. That voice—it hit me before I saw him. Into sight came Pete Srisai, once mine back at school, glowing like a picture left too long in the sun. Not warm, that grin, more like something rehearsed. His gaze had changed, though, keener now, hungry even, the kind of hunger I remembered well.
"I saw the news," he said, closing the distance with the casual ease of someone who assumes the world bends. He appraised me like a shopkeeper sizing up an antique. "The King of Bangkok? Really, Lalin? I have to say, I'm impressed. After your father's little…incident, I didn't think you'd stoop so far as to marry Phakin Rattana."
A sharpness cut through his voice—brief, quiet, yet felt. It arrived fast, like a flick against skin.
"I didn't sell myself, Pete." My voice came out colder than I meant. I stepped back. "I moved on. You should try it sometime."
Pete laughed, soft and smug. He brushed my arm—too close, too familiar. "Moved on? Come on. We both know what Phakin is. He's a machine. Nobody in Bangkok thinks he has a heart. He's using you for optics, for stock prices, for whatever game he's playing."
Knuckles went white, gripping as he needed it more than air.
"What I know is you, Lalin. What do you like? What you need. We were good together—before your family's mess. When this arrangement collapses, and it will, you'll remember that."
"Get your hand off her."
A hush came from Pete's direction, soft but edged—like it already knew harm would follow.
A glow from the grand room caught Phakin just right. Charm dropped away. What showed up instead pressed against your chest like a weight. His eyes landed on Pete's grip at my elbow. That stare twisted something deep inside me.
Right away, Pete pulled his hands off me. All the blood seemed to vanish from his face. "Khun Phakin," he said, voice tight. Just talking to her. Saying congrats to Lalin."
Silence came from Phakin. Fixed on me his gaze remained; that stare—piercing, edged—left me strangely guarded yet completely bare all in a breath.
Into the space we stood, he moved—silent, solid. A moment passed before his grip tightened at my waist, yanking me close enough to steal my breath. Air filled my lungs too fast. My fingers landed on his chest, pressing without thought.
Pete felt the weight of those words hang in the air. A pause stretched tight between them. Then Phakin turned slightly, just enough to catch his eye. His voice came soft but sharp. Not loud, never loud. Just certain. The kind that leaves marks. "Our guest had plans to go," he said. Quiet. Still. Like a blade held behind your back. He didn't blink. Didn't move. Just waited. "Wasn't that right, Mr. Pete?"
For a moment, he just stood there, eyes wide. Sure thing, Lalin. "Nice seeing you," he managed to say before slipping away into the people around him.
Still holding tight, Phakin pulled harder when the fabric started to tear. Close enough now that I caught the sharp scent of gin, laced with a chill, metallic edge. Pressure built at my ribs as his hand pressed deeper, just shy of hurting but impossible to ignore.
"Who was that?" he demanded.
"No one," I breathed. My heart stuttered. "Just someone from the university. He's not important."
"He touched you." The possessiveness in his voice landed like a stone. "He looked at you like you were something he could claim."
That grip of his dug into her arms. "Phakin, you're hurting me," came out quiet and real. Truth sat heavy in those words, not just skin deep but deeper. Tightness lived in him, wound up like a spring ready to snap.
A little give in his stance softened the tension, yet he held his ground. His palm left my waist, moving upward until it cupped my throat, fingers spread wide. The pad of his thumb settled where my pulse beats, steady beneath skin.
A grip that leaves traces. Not so firm that it cuts off breath.
"Let me make one thing very clear, Lalin." His voice dropped into a ragged, intimate whisper that made my legs threaten to give. "The contract says you belong to me for three years. No one touches you. No one looks at you the way he did. No one remembers your name without thinking of mine first."
A light touch moved across my wrist, slow like a question. The warmth of his skin lingered without hurry. Fingers brushed just beside the beat, quiet but certain.
"If he's near you again—if he even glances your way—I will ruin his family's firm before the sun comes up. I'll dismantle everything they've built, piece by piece. Do you understand me?"
"Jealous, Phakin?" Out of nowhere, that hit hard. My eyes stayed locked forward, even if my hands wouldn't stop shaking. Not because I feared him—more like the weight behind the words. Was it really about emotion? Or just control dressed up as concern? Things matter more than feelings here
A change crossed his face. Not gone—the anger only changed shape, turning deeper, wanting. My mouth became the focus of his gaze, and then—suddenly—the space nearby felt charged.
"I don't get jealous, Lalin," he murmured, rough. "I get even."
That night, he stayed still. Worse than a lie was what happened instead.
A hush fell as his lips met the soft spot beneath my ear. Heat sparked at the touch, sharp and sudden. Down it raced, shaking loose something deep. My fingers gripped his shoulders—steady needed, balance gone. Heartbeat loud, wild, filling the silence.
That grin pressed into my neck felt less like a touch and more like a claim—no purple marks left behind, yet something underneath stayed changed.
"Smile for the cameras, wife," he whispered. "We're going home. Now."
His fingers closed around mine, stiff as wire, pressing hard enough to leave a mark. Through the thick of people we moved, him pulling without pause. Over there, past bodies and light, Pete stood still—eyes flat, giving nothing away.
Pete? He slipped my mind completely. Thinking of him felt impossible.
Fire ran through my fingers where Phakin held them, warmth still humming from his mouth against my skin, yet ice formed deep inside me. That moment—his touch, that near-kiss - they weren't promises. They were endings dressed like beginnings. My breath didn't catch; it simply stopped. The truth arrived without warning: some closeness only makes the distance worse later.
This moment reached beyond paperwork. Protecting how things looked mattered less than what was underneath.
Maybe deep down Phakin already understood - he wasn't just after moments or looks.
It was my heart he aimed for.
Here's the scary part. Wanting to hand it over started creeping in.
cliffhanger: Just making it to the penthouse, Phakin's head of security passed him an unopened letter. My name. My father's. Both scratched roughly across the outside. Notes inside. Pictures too. Arranged so carefully it set teeth on edge - proof we'd been tracked. Underneath the stack, one line stood clear: "Lalin stays living only if the deal dies by midnight."