I arrived at the club just before my shift, the quiet hum of music and laughter already filling the velvet-draped corridors. My fingers kept brushing against the pages of the novel in my bag—the bookmark tucked safely between them like a secret pressed to my heart.

I wasn’t sure if I’d see him tonight.

But if I did… would he say something?

Would he even look at me?

I took my position at the reception, greeting familiar faces, smiling, pretending to be calm. But my heartbeat betrayed me every time a shadow passed, every time I caught a glimpse of broad shoulders and that quiet, lethal grace only he had.

And then it happened.

A figure paused across the room, near the far hallway.

Ivan.

Wearing a black tailored shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms. He wasn’t looking at anyone else. Just… me.

I lowered my gaze, suddenly shy.

But I felt it. That tether between us. Silent, charged, inescapable.

A little later, I overheard some of the club members—regulars and a few staff—excitedly planning a weekend retreat.

A private villa near Palolem. Music, beach, food. A break from velvet and shadows.

“Ameya,” Saran called out, “you should come. Everyone’s going.”

I hesitated.

Reva nudged me. “You need a break. Say yes.”

I smiled. “Okay… yeah. I’ll come.”

A round of cheers followed.

Behind them, near the bar, Ivan’s head lifted subtly.

Saran, ever the bold one, made his way over to Ivan and said something low. I couldn’t hear—just saw the faint shake of Ivan’s head, the bored shrug that meant no.

Typical, I thought. He never joined these things.

But then Saran added something else.

And Ivan stilled.

His eyes cut to me.

The change in his face was imperceptible to most—but not to me.

That flicker. That tiny tightening of his jaw.

“She’s coming,” I imagined Saran had said.

A pause. And then, Ivan gave the smallest nod.

“Then I’ll come too.”

And just like that, the air around me changed.

Like the sea pulling back before a wave.

Something was coming.

Something slow. Unstoppable.

And deep down, I knew—

This wasn’t just a weekend trip anymore.

It was a reckoning.

The sun hung low in the Goan sky by the time we arrived at the villa—whitewashed walls, arched windows, and a sprawling balcony that kissed the edge of the sea. Palms swayed lazily in the breeze, casting long, graceful shadows across the courtyard.

Laughter echoed from the others as we spilled out of cars, dragging duffel bags and coolers, already kicking off shoes and cracking open drinks. The scent of coconut oil and ocean salt clung to the air.

I had barely stepped out of the car when I felt it.

A shift.

Like gravity pulling slightly harder.

I looked up.

Ivan.

He stood near the villa entrance, talking to someone, sunglasses low on the bridge of his nose, black linen shirt clinging to his frame in all the right places. The wind teased a lock of hair out of place, but he didn’t bother fixing it.

Because he was looking at me.

Not obviously. Not boldly. But with a kind of heat that pressed against my skin from across the gravel driveway.

I quickly looked away, pretending to adjust my tote bag.

But I felt him still.

We were all shown our rooms—pairs, groups, bunkmates for some. I shared a breezy upstairs room with Reva, our balcony looking out at the beach. She threw herself on the bed and sighed, already half asleep.

I stepped outside, the wind catching the hem of my cotton dress.

Downstairs, Ivan leaned against the balcony pillar across the courtyard, a drink in his hand. He was alone.

And even from here, I could feel his gaze skimming my skin.

Not possessive.

Not even lustful.

Just… intensely aware.

And that was worse.

Because I was aware too.

Of how my pulse skipped. Of how my lips parted when I caught him looking. Of how my knees weakened every time he was near.

Dinner was casual—grilled fish, music, poolside cushions. People danced. Some swam. Someone passed around shots.

I laughed with Reva. Talked with Saran. Let myself forget the heat of his attention.

But every time I turned around, Ivan was there.

Not next to me.

Not even speaking to me.

Just… watching.

With eyes that made my skin tingle and my thoughts turn reckless.

When night fell, someone suggested a bonfire on the beach. Everyone agreed.

Except him.

He didn’t say a word.

Just glanced up at me as I passed with a towel in hand.

And in a voice low and wrapped in shadow, he said something in Russian.

I froze.

“What did you say?” I whispered, breath caught.

He took a step closer, lips at my ear.

“You’ll ask me one day,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress, “when you’re ready to hear it.”

And then, just like that, he turned away—leaving me there in the hallway, heart pounding, skin flushed, and entirely not okay.

Most of them had drifted back inside. The bonfire was still crackling low, casting flickering shadows across the beach. I stayed, curled up in the corner of a lounge chair, knees hugged to my chest, listening to the waves lick the shore.

I thought I was alone.

Until I felt him.

That quiet shift in the air. The kind of presence you don’t see—you sense.

I turned slowly.

Ivan.

He walked toward me, barefoot in the sand, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His shirt was half unbuttoned now, hair tousled, and moonlight carved silver into the sharp angles of his face.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just sat beside me—close, but not touching.

The silence was loud. Like it always was with him.

Then, he looked at me.

“Ты даже не представляешь, как сильно ты меня держишь,” he said softly, his voice a slow ache.

I blinked. “I don’t—what?”

He smiled faintly, eyes not leaving mine. “You don’t understand.”

I shook my head, breath catching. “What did you say?”

He leaned closer, voice rough. “You have no idea… how tightly you hold me.”

My heart thudded.

“Ты — мое слабое место,” he whispered, words falling like secrets in the dark.

“Stop—” I said gently. “You know I don’t understand Russian.”

“Exactly,” he murmured, his gaze molten. “That’s why I’m brave enough to say it.”

I stared at him, stunned. “What… what do I hold, Ivan?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached up—fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face, tucking it gently behind my ear.

It wasn’t lust in his eyes.

It was something heavier.

Possessive. Reverent. Unbearably honest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice like gravel. “You are… too light for a man like me.”

“Then why am I here?” I whispered.

“Because I am weak,” he confessed in Russian again, barely audible. “Слишком слаб, чтобы держаться подальше.”

I didn’t need a translation.

I felt it.

In the way he looked at me.

In the way he said nothing… and everything.

And suddenly, the distance between us felt too loud.