The door clicked shut behind me.

The room revealed itself in slow, lavish breaths.

A grand piano: black lacquer, lid propped open, ivory keys glowing soft under the lamp like teeth in a smile. Sheet music scattered across the bench, edges curling, some pages yellowed with age.

A half-empty bottle of Macallan 25 sat beside a single crystal tumbler, amber liquid catching the light like trapped fire.

A velvet chaise lounge in deep burgundy, throw pillows crushed like someone had been curled there for hours.

A wall of built-in shelves: trophies, pointe shoes in glass cases, framed photos of a younger her on stages in Paris, New York, Tokyo.

A ballet barre ran the length of one mirrored wall, scuffed from years of use. A record player in the corner, vinyl spinning slow: Nina Simone, voice low and smoky, barely audible over the distant thump from below.

Everything screamed solitude. Sanctuary. She lived here. Not just visited.

I walked to the piano, sat on the bench without asking. The wood was cool under my palms. I didn't touch the keys. Just looked at her.

Really looked.

Her face: sharp cheekbones, full lips painted deep red, a faint scar through one brow like a lightning strike.

Eyes the color of glacier melt, framed by lashes thick enough to cast shadows. Skin sun-kissed but not tanned: earned, not sprayed. A faint sheen of sweat still clung to her collarbone, catching the light like diamond dust.

Then I saw them.

Bruises.

Faint at first. A ring of purple-yellow around her throat, thumbprints clear as tattoos.

More on her wrists: fingerprints, fresh, overlapping older ones. Down her thighs: blooms of violet and green, some shaped like hands, others like belt buckles.

Under the dim lamp, anyone else would've missed them. But I wasn't anyone.

My eyes flared: gold, predatory, for half a second before I locked it down.

She didn't notice.

She walked to the bed: king-sized, white linens rumpled, pillows stacked like a throne. Sat on the edge, legs crossed tight. The robe spilled open slightly: more bruises, a lattice of pain across her ribs, a crescent bite mark on her inner thigh.

I closed my eyes for a beat.

She laughed: low, husky, defiant.

"What, never seen a woman dance before?"

I opened them. "Not like you."

She tilted her head. "You got a name, Beach King, other than Eros?"

"Eros will do just for now," I said.

She sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed tight, blanket abandoned, robe half-open like a dare. The bruises were there, but she wore them like jewelry now: defiant, unapologetic.

I stayed on the piano bench, hands resting on my thighs, eyes on her.

"So," she said, voice smoky, "you just wander into locked rooms for fun, or is this a hobby?"

"And the woman's a walking felony."

She smirked. "Felony? Bold. Bet that line works on the sorority girls."

"Never tried it on a woman who could probably bench me and make it look like yoga," I said. "Figured I'd aim higher."

Her laugh was sharp, delighted. "You're not wrong. I could bench you. Question is: would I drop you after?"

"Only one way to find out," I said. "But I'm fragile. Ego's glass."

"Liar," she said, eyes flicking over my chest, lingering. "That ego's titanium. And those abs… they're moving when you talk. Stop it. It's rude."

"Can't help it," I said. "They're shy. They flex when nervous."

She leaned forward, robe slipping an inch, lace bra straining. "Nervous? You? The guy who deadlifted a small car on the beach?"

"Different kind of lift," I said. "Iron's easy. Holding your gaze? That's a PR attempt."

She snorted. "Smooth. Bet that works on the bikini brigade downstairs."

"Never tried it on a woman who could probably kill me with a pirouette," I said. "Figured I'd start small."

Her lips twitched. "You're not small."

"You've been looking?"

"Hard not to," she said. "You walk in here shirtless, all muscle and ego. Like the party threw you up three floors."

"You really like my abs, huh?"

"Please," she said. "I've seen better abs on a statue. Yours just… move when you breathe. It's distracting."

I grinned. "I'll try to hold still."

"Don't," she said. "Ruins the view."

Silence. Comfortable. Charged.

"You always this chatty with intruders?" I asked.

"Only the cute ones," she said. "The ugly ones get the lamp. "Only the ones who look like they could survive me," she said. "Most don't make it past the door. You're lucky I like your face."

"I'm honored," I said. "And slightly terrified. In that order."

"Good," she said. "Fear keeps you sharp. And cute."

"You think I'm cute?"

"I think you're trouble," she said. "Cute's the bait. Trouble's the hook."

"I'd take that, I like by the way too, your dance," I said. "And your legs. And the way you glare like you're deciding whether to kiss me or knee me."

"Still deciding," she said. "Leaning toward knee."

"Fair," I said. "I did break in."

"Technically invited," she said. "Door was open. Light was on. You're just… nosy."

"Curious," I corrected. "There's a difference."

"Explain it to me," she said, leaning forward, robe slipping lower. "Slowly."

I smiled. "Curious means I want to know why a woman who looks like that is hiding on the third floor instead of owning the dance floor downstairs."

She rolled her eyes. "Because downstairs is a petri dish of tequila and bad decisions. Up here, I control the music. The light. The air."

"Control freak?"

"Perfectionist," she said. "Big difference."

"Noted," I said. "So, what's a perfectionist doing in a beach mansion full of chaos?"

"Hiding," she said. "Obviously."

"From what?"

She paused. Looked at me. Really looked.

"From everything," she said finally. "From everyone. From the noise. From the hands. From the questions. My name too?"

I nodded. Didn't push.

She tilted her head. "You're not asking."

"You'll tell me when you want," I said. "Or you won't. Either way, I'm not here to interrogate. I'm here to listen. Or watch. Or play piano. Dealer's choice."

She laughed: low, warm, surprised.

"You're weird," she said.

"Occupational hazard," I said. "Comes with the crown."

"Beach King," she said, testing it. "Sounds like a porn title."

"It's not," I said. "But I've considered rebranding."

She grinned. Real this time.

Her breath hitched: just a flicker, but I caught it. My aura had been leaking without permission: warm, heavy, like sunlight through honey, wrapping around her wrists, her throat, her thighs.

She shifted, thighs pressing together, a soft flush crawling up her chest.

"You're doing something," she murmured, eyes narrowing. "I feel… warm. Like the room just turned up ten degrees."

"Side effect," I said. "Happens when I'm within ten feet of a woman who could ruin me and I'd thank her."

She bit her lip. "Stop flirting with physics."

"Can't," I said. "You're bending the laws just by existing. Gravity's jealous."

She laughed again, louder, head tilting back, throat exposed. The bruises there looked darker in the lamplight, but her pulse fluttered fast under them: alive, wanting.

"You really are trouble."

I grinned. "You're not wrong. But I'm house-trained. Mostly."

"Mostly?" She arched a brow. "Define 'mostly.'"

"I don't bite unless invited," I said. "And I always clean up my toys."

Her flush deepened. The air around her shimmered: my aura, coiling tighter, brushing her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the soft skin behind her knee.

She shivered, thighs clenching.

"You're definitely doing something," she said, voice lower. "I'm… tingly. Like champagne under my skin."

"Like I said, Occupational hazard," I said. "Comes with the crown. You're just… potent. My system's overclocking."

And also, because you're attracted to me as much as I am to you!

"What is your name?"

"Lila." Another beat. "Lila Valenti."

"Beautiful name," I said, voice low.

She leaned back on her hands, robe slipping further, lace bra straining, bruises blooming like dark roses across her ribs.

I glanced around again: the trophies glinting in the lamplight, the barre scuffed from years of sweat and discipline, the worn toe shoes in glass cases like relics. "You were a dancer. Professional."

"Principal," she corrected, chin high. "Bolshoi. Then Paris. Then… here."

"You're the best I've ever seen," I said. "And I've only seen thirty seconds. But I'm convinced."

She laughed: real this time, head thrown back, throat exposed, bruises stark against her skin. "Damn right I am. I could dance circles around every drunk girl downstairs with my eyes closed."

I smiled. "I play piano."

Her brow arched. "Oh?"

"Not professionally," I said. "But I'm decent. And I'd be honored: deeply, stupidly honored: if you danced while I played. Just once. For me. Pretty Please!"

She studied me. The bruises. The robe. The defiance.

Then: "Tell me about you first."

I leaned forward, elbows on the piano lid, chin in my hands. "Rude," I said. "Asking about the king without offering tribute. Tell me about you first. Why hide up here when you could own the world downstairs?"

She smirked. "Because the world downstairs is a zoo. And I'm not a fucking exhibit."

"Fair," I said. "But you're still dodging. What's a prima ballerina doing in a beach mansion full of trust-fund disasters?"

"Recovering," she said, voice sharp. "From everything. From the stage. From the spotlight. From the hands."

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