“You’re bored,” Theo said, not a question. His hand rested on the table, close enough that she could see the calluses on his fingertips.

Afterward, as Theo slept, Elena watched the rain streak the window. She realized something: she didn’t want the secret anymore. She didn’t want the thrill. She wanted the truth.

The naughty seduction had ended. But the romantic storyline—the messy, human, unforgivable one—was only just beginning.

Then she pulled back, gasping. “This is a disaster.”

“I’m content,” she corrected.

Elena felt the trap close. She had wanted a naughty seduction—the thrill, the secret, the brush of fire against her skin. But she had not accounted for love . Loving Theo was not thrilling. It was a slow, exquisite ache. It meant lying to Mark, who had never done anything except love her badly in the wrong ways. It meant seeing the guilt in Theo’s eyes every time Priya’s name came up.