chapter 13 Aug 7, 2025 The hotel shower runs molten hot, which is perfect for pretending I'm not about to walk into an emotional wood chipper. Twenty minutes later, I'm on my bed in a towel, hair dripping, staring at my phone like it contains nuclear codes. The text takes me five tries to get right. Me: Where and when should we meet? His response pings back before I can even put the phone down. Charles: On my way to you. Oh, fuck no. I scramble upright, towel threatening to abandon ship. Of course he's already on his way. Charles Weinberg waits for no one, especially not half-naked mechanics who just publicly betrayed her team for gelato and first-class seats. The knock comes while I'm still trying to figure out if I have time to put on actual clothes. Sharp. Demanding. Very Charles. I open the door and he stands there looking like controlled fury in designer jeans, furrowed eyebrows and gray eyes doing that thing where they're simultaneously ice and fire. "Can I-" But he's already pushing past me, claiming my room like he's annexing territory. The door clicks shut with the finality of a prison cell. "Nice of you to make yourself comfortable," I snap, clutching my towel like dignity depends on terry cloth. "Don't." His voice could freeze hell. "Don't you dare act like I'm the one crossing boundaries here." "Boundaries?" The laugh that escapes me is pure acid. "That's rich coming from you ." "You sat with him . Held his hand. Let him …" He can't even finish, jaw working like he's chewing glass. "Let him what ? Treat me like I exist in public? Revolutionary concept, I know." "You're being indecent, Eva." The word comes out strangled, his control fraying at the edges. Something in me snaps. The months of hidden touches and secret shame crystallize into pure rage. "Indecent? I'm being indecent ?" My voice rises to match his. "You're the one who said I could do whatever I wanted, that my personal life was none of your business. Your exact words, Charles. Nothing between us, remember?" "That's not-" "And if we're discussing indecency ," I continue, on a roll now, "perhaps you should remember your fingers inside me in our workspace. Against the wall. In the storage room. But sure, me sitting next to someone on a plane is the real scandal here." The words hit like precision strikes. I watch them land, watch his face contort with something between fury and desperation. Then he lunges. It happens so fast I barely process it. One second he's across the room, the next he's on me-mouth on mine before I can process the shift, the kiss rough, desperate, all teeth and heat. Then he's pushing me back against the bed, hands grasping for my towel like he's entitled to what's underneath. And damn it, part of me wants to let him. Wants to drown in the familiar fire of him, just for a moment. But I'm angry-furious at the way he thinks he can take without asking, like feelings are currency he's already paid. And behind that fury is the quiet, steel-edged voice of reason: Elio's rule. The one I agreed to. No Charles. No slipping. No second chances. "No." The word comes out clear and sharp, cutting through whatever madness has possessed him. "I'm not okay with this, Charles. Get off me. Now." The effect is instantaneous. He stumbles backward like I've electrocuted him, horror dawning across his face. His back hits the wall and he slides down it, gray eyes swimming with tears he'll never let fall. "I'm sorry," he whispers, voice cracking. "Christ, Eva, I'm so sorry. I don't… I can't…" The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we've broken. I stay on the sofa, towel clutched tight, watching him fall apart against my hotel wall. "I can't control it," he finally says, words tumbling out like a confession. "This… thing between us. It's like gravity. Like breathing. I see you and everything in me just… reaches." My heart does something complicated in my chest. "Only physically?" The question hangs in the air like a challenge. This is it. The moment he could change everything. Say the words. Make it real. Choose me the way I've been choosing him for over a year. But his silence is answer enough. "Right." I stand, a decision crystallizing with painful clarity. "You know what, I'm done waiting, Charles. Done trying to force admissions from you that you'll never make. I want to be seen. Chosen. Not just behind closed doors." "Eva-" "I'm going to try with Elio." The lie tastes necessary. "As a man, not a colleague. No tech talk, no strategy discussions. Just… us ." The pain that flashes across his face is almost enough to take it back. Almost. But then I watch him do what he always does-retreat behind that familiar mask, walls slamming up so fast I get whiplash. The Charles from five seconds ago vanishes, replaced by the cold stranger I see in the garage. Fine. Two can play at emotional warfare. I stand slowly, making sure I have his attention. Then, maintaining eye contact like my life depends on it, I let the towel drop. His eyes go dark immediately, pupils blown wide, but it's not love I see there. Not tenderness or affection or any of the things I've been desperately seeking. Just hunger. Raw, physical want that reduces everything between us to body parts and bad decisions. The insult of it makes me turn away, heading for the wardrobe with as much dignity as naked spite allows. I'm reaching for clothes when I feel him behind me. No sound, just suddenly there, pressing me against the mirrored closet door. His arms cage me in, body a wall of heat at my back. "Tell me you don't want me," he murmurs against my ear, and his hand starts its familiar descent down my stomach. Slow. Deliberate. Knowing exactly where to touch to make me forget my own name. My phone screams to life on the nightstand. We both freeze. The screen lights up with Elio's name, and below it, the contact photo that makes my chest tight for all the wrong reasons. It's from the plane. Elio kneeling at my feet, hands on my legs, looking up at me with that soft smile that shouldn't exist in our fucked-up arrangement. He'd asked me to take it, told me to look at it whenever turbulence hit and he could only hold my hand from his seat. The phone keeps ringing. Charles's hand stills on my stomach. In the mirror, I can see us both-him pressed against me, possessive and demanding; me trapped and naked and about to make another catastrophic choice. The photo stares back at me. Elio's genuine smile. His hands steady on my legs. The promise I made to play this part, to be his in public even if it's all performance. Before I can stop myself, the words slip out, quieter than I expect, but sharp enough to cut. "What exactly is stopping you from being as open as he is?" The words hang between us like a challenge while Elio's contact photo glows from my phone-him on his knees, grounding me through panic, being everything Charles won't let himself be. Charles's hands drop from my body like I've burned him. He's cursing under his breath-at Elio, at me, at the whole fucked-up situation we've created. German expletives mixed with English, a linguistic cocktail of frustration. He's at the door before I can blink, hand on the handle, back rigid with whatever emotion he's strangling to death. "Charles-" The door closes. No answer. No backward glance. Just gone. Classic Weinberg. Ask him to feel something and watch him disappear faster than his qualifying lap times.