“Someone else’s leftovers, huh?”
Sofia Reed lounged against the edge of the tub like some water sprite, watching Julian Ford turn away as he peeled off his soaked shirt.
His pale back tensed, muscles carving out sharp lines, droplets sliding down his spine and disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.
“Didn’t stop you from enjoying the ‘taste’ just now.”
Julian tossed the wet shirt into the hamper and shot her a sideways glance.
“Only took one try to know it’d gone bad.”
Sofia’s eyes drifted over the faint streaks of water still clinging to his chest, the corner of her lips lifting.
Damn. ThirtyJulian Ford lifted his gaze, only to meet a pair of eyes glazed with misty drunkenness.
Her cheeks were flushed a soft rosy shade, the kind that came from wine, and in her eyes shimmered a quiet, moonlit glow.
The name he’d heard countless times—turns out it belonged to someone with eyes this dangerously captivating.
Sofia Reed’s face was small and delicately put together, pure and innocent yet somehow carrying its own kind of quiet allure.
Not gaudy.
Just the kind of trouble he knew he couldn’t handle.
He never believed in love at first sight, but the moment she stumbled into his arms in the elevator, desire had surged through him like a punch.
And with the moon hanging low tonight, tempting as sin, he almost broke his own rules.
Thankfully, Evan Ford’s call came right on cue, dragging him back from the edge.
He wasn’t sure whether Sofia’s boldness tonight was alcohol-driven or intentional, but whichever it was, it needed to end here.
After all, the title of his foster son’s girlfriend was enough to kill any impulse.
Crossing that line would only hand people a knife to point at them both.
Julian calmly fastened the last button of his shirt.
“Leave now, and I’ll pretend you still have some dignity left.”
Leave?
Sofia lowered her head, glancing at herself.
The light apricot slip dress she wore was soaked into a near‑transparent film, clinging to her curves as faint ripples of moisture traced down from her waist.
Looking like this, where was she supposed to go?
“Sir…”Sofia Reed stumbled forward, her soaked dress clinging to her ankles, and her damp forehead bumped straight into his chest.
“Ugh… my legs gave out. Can’t walk.”
Her fingertips hooked onto the sandalwood beads around Julian Ford’s wrist, using the pull to fall right into his arms. The string snapped with a sharp crack.
Beads scattered across the floor, one last piece rolling right into her half‑open collar.
Julian gripped the broken string, his knuckles turning white.
Twelve years of rigid discipline lay there with those shattered beads.
The beads broke, and so did his calm.
“Done messing around?”
Julian lifted Sofia the way someone picks up a naughty kitten.
“Guess you’re more into tossing me out,” she mumbled, eyelashes wet and trembling, her breath reeking of alcohol mixed with a faint orange‑blossom scent brushing against his throat.
“So sleepy…”
Her soft, nasal tone made his heartbeat stumble.
“Let me nap before you kick me out, okay?”
Her warm breath spread across the hollow of his neck, tiny sparks hitting dry tinder.
“Let go,” he warned, voice cold, though his fingers carefully avoided the back of her neck.
Sofia swayed in a drunken haze, wet hair sticking to her flushed cheeks as she burrowed blindly into his chest.
“Sir, you’re moodier than the weather app.”
“Come on, be a kind Bodhisattva, take in one drunk—karma +1. Leaving me here? That’s, like, -999.”
Her voice softened, drifting off, breathing slow and steady.
Julian lowered his gaze. His watch pointed at 2 a.m.Curled up in his arms, she looked like some rain‑soaked ragdoll cat.
A pulse throbbed at his temple before he finally gave in, gripping her slim waist and carrying her over to the bed.
As Sofia Reed sank into the mattress, she let out a soft hum, her skirt flipping up and exposing those pale legs.
He turned away, walked to the window, and made a call.
“It’s me.”
“Send a clean set of women’s clothes to the suite. Yeah, size…”
His eyes drifted to the bed. She rolled unconsciously, her skirt inching up even higher.
His throat tightened, voice turning cold. “Size S. Hurry.”
He hung up, went back to the bed, tugged a blanket over her, and tossed it down.
Then he stepped into the closet. Five minutes later, he walked out again in a fresh white shirt.
“Be gone before eight.”
Buttoning the last cuff, he headed out of the suite.
The click of the lock sounded like a full stop, trapping all the absurdity inside the room.
Sofia slowly opened her eyes, stood, and walked toward the bathroom.
Ha. The old man really was holding himself together.
Such a pity—she’d almost leveled up a whole generation.
But that was fine.
Julian Ford wore prayer beads, but his restraint was paper‑thin.
Sooner or later, she’d have this self‑controlled, abstinent monk of a man crumble in her bed.
The moment she stepped out of the bathroom, the doorbell rang.Sofia Reed grabbed a man’s shirt and slipped it on, her damp hair brushing her shoulders as she padded barefoot to the door.
The staff handed over a garment bag with a polite nod. “Your order, miss.”
“Thanks.”
She had just taken the bag when a startled voice echoed down the hallway.
“Sofia? What are you doing here?”
She looked up. Evan Ford stood a few steps away, his face darkening on sight.
Behind him, Claire Bennett clutched his jacket around herself.
Sofia lifted a brow.
Great. The drama showed up earlier than expected.
Evan’s jaw was clenched, his eyes glued to the oversized shirt hanging loose on her body.
Fresh kiss marks peeked from her collarbone, her wet hair dripping onto the fabric.
Anyone seeing this would jump to conclusions.
“You ignore my calls, don’t reply to my texts—Sofia, what the hell are you pulling?”
His voice was raw, threaded with anger and broken sleep.
Sofia almost laughed.
Six years. She’d actually chased after this guy for six freaking years?
Tonight, her so‑called boyfriend Evan was busy throwing a birthday party for Claire, completely blanking that it was also her birthday.
She just watched from the side like some extra no one invited.
Then she’d knockedHe sat next to Claire Bennett, idly spinning his lighter like he couldn’t care less.
“Boring, but whatever you guys want.”
“She can drink. She won’t get knocked out.”
Those two casual lines crushed the tiny bit of hope she’d been stupidly holding onto.
Half a bottle of tequila scorched down her throat before everything in her head snapped into place.
So this was it—she was just the pathetic cannon-fodder girl doomed to die miserably.
Her whole role was to be stepped on, used up, and then end up crying behind bars with a baby who didn’t even have a known father, dying in some dirty corner of the red‑light district.
Six years of her pouring out her heart… and in the book, it was barely a few lines of dog‑licking humiliation.
Ridiculous.
She lifted her gaze and met Evan Ford’s furious stare, then let a slow, mocking smile tug at her lips.
From now on, she got to decide where this story went.
“Your call earlier was so loud with all that water splashing. What, your hearing going bad?”
Evan froze.
The sounds from that phone call exploded in his mind, each echo stabbing at him.
How dare she?
Right under his nose, in the penthouse suite—
“Sofia Reed!”
“Who touched you?!”
Evan’s voice shook, and he didn’t even notice how sour it sounded.
