Chapter 6

Firewall of Desire 🔐| Part 5: Late Night at the Penthouse

The car ride back to Viktor’s penthouse was quiet. Too quiet. Viktor spent most of it on his phone, thumb scrolling through emails like the rest of the world did not exist. I stared out the window watching Palo Alto blur past, trying to ignore the way his knee kept brushing mine every time the driver took a turn. By the time we stepped into the private elevator I was already exhausted from pretending I was not hyper aware of every inch of him.

The doors opened into the same sleek, expensive silence as this morning. Lights had been left on low. The city glittered below like it was performing just for him. Viktor shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. The movement pulled his white shirt tight across his back and shoulders. I looked away fast.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, already heading toward the open kitchen. “This is your workspace now too. No need to stand like a guest.”

I loosened myself and rolled up my sleeves. The navy suit still felt like someone else’s skin. I dropped onto the long leather sofa and opened the company laptop. The screen lit up with the files Viktor had granted access to earlier. AetherLynx public architecture. Login portals. Weak endpoints. My fingers hovered over the keys. I could feel him watching me from the kitchen.

He poured himself a vodka. Neat. No ice. The bottle clinked softly against the glass.

“Drink?”

I shook my head. “Better not. I need to stay sharp.”

He smirked. “Suit yourself.”

Then he disappeared down the hallway toward his bedroom without another word. The door clicked shut behind him. I sat there staring at the laptop screen, pretending to read the same line of API documentation for the third time. The penthouse felt bigger without him in it. Too quiet. Too empty. My thigh still tingled where his had pressed against mine earlier.

Fifteen minutes later the bedroom door opened again.

Viktor walked back out in a fitted black t-shirt that hugged every ridge of his chest and shoulders like it had been painted on. The fabric stretched tight across his pecs, sleeves straining around thick biceps. Gray sweatpants hung low on his narrow hips, the drawstring untied, waistband sitting just below the sharp V of his lower abs. No shoes. Bare feet on the marble. Hair still slightly damp from a quick rinse, pushed back carelessly. He looked relaxed. Dangerous. Like a man who knew exactly what he was doing to the room just by stepping into it.