Chapter 4

Finnegan’s POV

With that, I watched her compose herself, noting how her fingers trembled slightly as she gripped the doorframe. The sight stirred something in me - memories of those same fingers tracing patterns on my skin in the dead of night. I pushed the thought away.

The soft glow of the suite cast shadows across her face as she stood frozen in the doorway. Six years hadn't changed her much–she still had that same delicate beauty that could bring a man to his knees. But I wasn't that man anymore.

She took a step back, her composer cracking just enough to reveal the panic underneath. "I'm sorry, I must have the wrong room," she said, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her true feelings. Always so controlled, my Ophelia. No, not mine. Not anymore.

A cold laugh escaped my lips as I moved closer, forcing her to step back into the room. "Wrong room? Is that the best excuse you can come up with?" The door clicked shut behind us, sealing us in this moment we couldn't escape.

"Finnegan, please." Her breath hitched as I invaded her space. "I should go."

"Tell me," I pressed, drinking in her discomfort. "What's your price this time? How much to make you stay here tonight?"

The words hit their mark–I saw the flash of pain in her eyes before anger took its place. "You bastard," she whispered, trying to push past me.

I chuckled and caught her wrist, pulling her back. The contact sent electricity through my veins, and for a moment, I was transported to that night six years ago when I'd last held her like this. The night everything fell apart.

"You're not leaving, Ophelia. Not until we talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," she snapped, trying to wrench free. "I'm married now. Have been for six months in case you don’t know, Mr. Shaw."

The revelation should have hurt more than it did. Instead, I felt a bitter amusement. "Oh, yes? Married? And yet here you are, in a hotel room that isn't yours." I tightened my grip slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to keep her there. "Does your husband know where you are?"

"Let me go, Finnegan."

"Why should I? You're just a tool for release, aren't you? That's all you've ever been to me."

I knew these words were cruel, designed to wound, and they found their mark. She exploded, fists pounding against my chest as years of pent-up emotion burst forth. "How dare you! You have no right–no right at all!"

I absorbed her blows, each hit a reminder of what we'd lost. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and God help me, I wanted to kiss them away. But that wasn't my place anymore. Maybe it never had been.

"I hate you, Finnegan," she choked out, her strikes weakening. "I hate you so much."

I caught her wrists again, stilling her movements. The skyline twinkled beyond the window, a stark contrast to the darkness between us. Her chest heaved with emotion, and I could feel her pulse racing beneath my fingers.

"Good," I replied, my voice rougher than I intended. "I don't expect you to love me, Ophelia. I never did."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but it was better this way. Better than admitting that every night for six years, I'd dreamed of her. Better than confessing that seeing her again felt like coming up for air after drowning. Better than acknowledging that even now, with all the pain and betrayal between us, I couldn't stop my heart from racing at her proximity.

She jerked away from me, and this time I let her go. We stood there in the dim light, two souls bound by past sins and present desires, neither willing to bridge the chasm between us.

"I don't expect you to love me," I repeated, more to convince myself than her. "I never did."

With each step I took towards her, she stepped backwards, finally stumbling back onto the bed.

She remained silent, but I could see her fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the sheet.

I leaned down towards her, allowing myself to drink in the sight of her. Even now, she was breathtaking–her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her elegant features almost overwhelming me. But there was something different about her, something I couldn't quite place.

Without warning, I closed the distance between us. My hand found the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in her silken hair as I pulled her into a fierce kiss. She gasped against my mouth, her hands coming up to push against my chest, but I held firm. The taste of her was intoxicating–sweet and familiar, yet somehow new.

"Finnegan, no..." she mumbled, "I'm married. You can do this to me."

"Foolish girl," I murmured, though the words held less venom now. "Did you think that would save you?"

I captured her lips again, gentler this time but no less insistent. She resisted at first, but gradually melted into the kiss, her fingers clutching at my shirt. The taste of her tears mingled with the sweetness of her mouth, creating an intoxicating blend that threatened to undo me completely.

The night stretched on, becoming a blur of tears and touches, of resistance and surrender. Ophelia drifted between consciousness and exhaustion, her accusations gradually fading into soft whimpers. The luxury suite that had started as her prison transformed into something else entirely–a confession booth, perhaps, or a sanctuary.

As dawn began to paint the sky in shades of pink and gold, I found myself holding Ophelia against my chest.

I listened to her soft breathing and felt the warmth of her body against mine. That was when I realized that the sleeping woman in my arms had once again managed to turn my world upside down.