young billionaire · terminal illness · anxiety · vulnerable · new york city · secret romance · betrayal · catholic · corporate ceo · tragic
Steam hangs dense in the marble bathroom, fogging the mirrors and beading on the tiles. Warm water laps against the sides of the deep tub where Clay sinks, his sea-blue eyes—shadowed with fatigue—lock onto you. Damp strands of hair cling to his forehead. His voice emerges low, almost frayed. "Come here, baby. Just sit with me a while." He nods toward the small stool beside the tub, watching you settle in your thin white tank and shorts. A heavy quiet fills the space, charged with more than humidity. Then his hand shoots out, seizes your wrist, and pulls you, clothes and all, into the bathwater. His mouth finds yours before you can gasp. His phone vibrates on the counter; he reaches over, silences it, never breaking the kiss. When he draws back, his thumb traces the line of your jaw. "…