AMIRA DAHAN

  I sat cross-legged on my bed, silk robe barely knotted, hair still curled from dinner, and my phone lighting up every two seconds like it had gossip to scream. I shouldn’t have done it—shouldn’t have taken the picture but I simply couldn't help myself. So much for detaching from the world.

  I scrolled through the replies.

  Is that him???

  Amira. I. Am. Obsessed.

  He looks like an assassin with a PhD in eye contact.

  You HAVE to make a move. Tell me he’s not really with your sister.

  I grinned and bit the edge of my thumbnail, scrolling back up to look at the picture again.

  Paul Bishop.

  I search the guy high and low. Nothing. No social media print whatsoever. There were a bunch of different Paul Bishops online but nothing concert. Damnit.

  I pictured his face while he was eating. He wasn’t even trying. Just sitting there across the table, wine glass in hand, jaw sharp, hair artfully messy in a way that looked completely unintentional. His expression was relaxed but alert. Like he could smile at you while calculating how many knives were in the room.

  Hot.

  Seriously hot.

  Not in that over-groomed, finance bro, third-button-unbuttoned kind of way. No, Paul looked like the guy in a movie who doesn’t say a word until halfway through—and when he does, everyone shuts up and listens.

  And he looked at me.

  He noticed the moment I walked out of my room tonight. I felt it like heat on my skin. His eyes had gone to my dress, sure, but then up—up to my face. My mouth. My eyes. That little pause? That was real.

  He saw me.

  Not just the outfit. Me.

  No one ever sees me when Leila’s in the room. Not really.

  She’s the star.. Always has been. Cool. Collected. Polished like a stone you can’t scratch no matter how hard you try. The middle sister who had talent and beauty. And I don’t hate her for it—I admire her. But I’ve never had a boyfriend that didn’t want Leila. I had guys at college that tried to get with me just so they could get an introduction to her. I had billionaires sons 10 years my senior buying me and my classmates shit just for the chance to talk to me so they could maybe catch a glimpse of her.

  Like we hung out all the time and she wasn[t the CEO of a fortune 500 hundred company.

  Paul was probably the same. But there was a difference. He was everything I wanted. Hot, witty, serious but with a dry humor. And best of all he didn’t fawn all over my sister. He smiled at me. Joked with my family. Every interaction with him seemed like winning.

  Of course, I know the whole thing with Leila is fake. She’s done this before—paraded in some polished man with a perfect jawline and a résumé just mysterious enough to be sexy. “It’s just for the optics,” she always says. “It’ll cool things down.” Classic Leila. A power move, like everything else with her.

  The problem?

  The men never knew it was fake.

  They all thought they had a shot. That they were special. That she was actually falling for them.

  And when they realized the truth?

  It didn’t end well.

  But this time?

  This guy isn’t like the others. Paul? He’s in another category.

  Clearly, an equal to Leila. Maybe not in status or pedigree—whatever people in our world liked to pretend mattered—but where it counted? He matched her. Intellectually, at the very least.

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  And that was rare enough.

  It was even rarer to find a man who could rival my sister in looks.

  But somehow, he did. The man was in a traffic accident waiting to happen.

  Best of all. Paul isn’t trying to impress the family. He’s not trying to win points or charm the staff or perform for approval. He’s just present. Fully, unapologetically present. But the man has so much unintentional wit and charm that it doesn’t matter if he is trying. He is succeeding like no man in our household ever has.

  And I can feel every woman in this house noticing.

  Even Mother didn’t know how to pin him down. That moment when he said, “When you’re a spy, it comes with the territory”? I swear I saw a flicker behind her eyes. The Queen of Ice blinked.

  I tossed my phone to the side and padded over to the window. The sea was ink-black and endless. The villa, quiet now. Nathan probably back in his cave of monitors. Zoey taken back home to her house in the village up the coast. Good lord the poor girl, she looked like she wanted to melt every time Paul looked at her. Cute. And tragic. My poor brother.

  I tugged the silk robe tighter around my waist, pacing. I shouldn’t care this much. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. But I am.

  It’s not just that he’s attractive. It’s how he moves. Like he’s used to danger. Like everything he touches has weight, and he knows how to handle it. His words aren’t casual, and his silences aren’t empty. He’s deliberate. That kind of man doesn’t just fall into someone’s life. He chooses.

  And I’m wondering who he’s going to choose. Because it won’t be Leila. It can’t be. She doesn’t do love. She does power. Influence. Strategy. And when she’s done with Paul, she’ll walk away without a second thought. She always does.

  Which means… Maybe I will get a turn.

  I stopped in front of the mirror and looked at myself. Not bad. Definitely not Leila—but I’m younger. Softer. People say I’ll grow into it, like beauty’s a sweater I’m still stitching.

  But maybe I don’t have to wait. Maybe I’m done waiting.

  I grabbed my phone again.

  Update: I have it on good authority. He’s not sleeping in her room. I typed.

  That means he’s fair game.

  Another round of hearts and flame emojis lit up the group chat.

  I didn’t reply. Just turned off the lamp, slid into bed, and stared at the ceiling while the moonlight painted soft silver lines across the sheets.

  This wasn’t just about attraction anymore.

  It was about timing.

  And if Leila wasn’t going to make a move?

  I would.

  SELENE

  I watched them from the balcony above the courtyard. Leila and her boyfriend. Paul. They were walking in the garden below, steps aligned, talking quietly like two people who knew how to hide things in plain sight.

  And I wanted to scream.

  I took a sip of my wine instead.

  That man—that man—was not some casual prop. He wasn’t a weekend boyfriend or a strategic arm candy. I knew the difference. I’ve had enough men in my orbit who tried to wear their confidence like cologne. Paul didn’t wear it. He was it.

  That dinner? That was war. And he handled it like a soldier who didn’t need a uniform.

  And the way he looked? Good lord..

  The moment he walked in, I felt it in my spine. That heat. That immediate pull. His suit hung perfectly, but it was the man inside it that demanded attention. Not just handsome, dangerous. Powerful. Broad shoulders, lean frame, those sharp eyes that flicked across the table and saw everything.

  I crossed one leg over the other, letting the silk of my robe fall higher along my thigh, not that anyone was here to see it.

  No one ever really sees me.

  Not next to Leila.

  Leila The brilliant. Leila The Beautiful. Leila The favorite. Leila the one who walks into a room and owns the silence.

  She didn’t earn him. Not Paul.

  And she doesn’t want him—not really. I know her. She’s playing a part again. Same as always. A fake relationship to stall another family arrangement. A statement without commitment. She’ll use him for three days and discard him before the jet lands.

  But me?

  I wouldn’t discard him.

  Good lord, I couldn’t. discard a guy like that.

  The thoughts I had at that table—I should be ashamed. The way he spoke to my husband, to my mother, and didn’t flinch? The way his voice wrapped around sarcasm like velvet stretched over a knife?

  I wanted to climb into his lap and take him right there.

  Bend him backward over the marble table. Leave nail marks down that smug, disciplined back. Drag my fingers through that perfect hair while he called my name suckled ever part of me.

  I exhaled. Closed my eyes. Counted to five.

  Not here. Not now.

  But it didn’t stop the thoughts.

  The truth is, I’m starving. Married to a man who thinks wealth is a personality. Touched like a trophy. Kissed like an obligation. I’m thirty-one. I know how this story goes. The ring on my finger isn’t love—it’s leverage. Power for power. An alliance.

  Now I have two children and a husband who spends more time buried in his mistress than with his twin daughters. It was their 10th day next week.

  But I played the game. I smiled at the right people. Hosted the parties. Wore the right shade of lipstick and kept my mouth shut when the wrong hands wandered.

  But Paul?

  He wouldn’t touch like that.

  He wouldn’t ask.

  He would own.

  I’d give anything to know what he tastes like. What he sounds like when he loses control. What he wants then I would give it to him. Hard and fast.

  And Leila’s just using him.

  She doesn’t see him. Not the way I do.

  That’s the thing about my sister. She’s brilliant, yes. Tactical. Unshakable. But she doesn’t believe people are real. They’re moves. Tools. Props. Items. Even Paul who seems more on her radar then most isn’t special. Not to her.

  But me? I feel things. I burn.

  And I want him.

  More than I should. More than is wise.

  More than I’ve wanted anything in years.

  I finished my wine, pressed the cool glass to my neck, and closed my eyes again.

  Maybe I’ll find him alone tomorrow.

  Maybe I’ll stop pretending I don’t see the way he watches me, too.

  And if he touches me? The good lord help him.

  Because I won’t let him go.