The turn on

CHAPTER 4: THE FIRST MOVE

ARORA'S POV

The penthouse suite smelled like money and manipulation.

Arora stood frozen in the doorway, her fingers digging into the strap of her duffel bag as she took in the single king-sized bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, the champagne chilling in a silver bucket.

This was a mistake.

Behind her, Nathaniel brushed past, his shoulder grazing hers—deliberately, she was sure—as he strode toward the minibar.

"Relax," he said, pouring two fingers of whiskey without looking at her. "I don't bite."

Liar.

She'd seen the way his gaze had darkened when the producers handed over the room key. The way his voice had dropped to a rough murmur when he'd read the clause about "shared accommodations" aloud.

"This is just for the cameras," she said, more to herself than to him.

Nathaniel finally turned, glass in hand, his smirk all sharp edges. "Is it?"

NATHANIEL'S POV

He watched her fidget.

It was almost amusing, the way she hovered near the door like a spooked animal, her storm-gray eyes darting between him and the bed. The same woman who'd stood on that stage and touched him without flinching was now acting like the penthouse was a cage.

Good.

Let her be nervous. Let her wonder what game they were really playing. Let her question everything. He needed to push her, to see how far this inexplicable connection stretched. He needed to understand the anomaly that was Arora Creek.

Nathaniel took a slow sip of whiskey, letting the silence stretch, the city lights twinkling beyond the glass like a thousand watchful eyes. Then—

"Take the bed."

Arora blinked. "What?"

"I'll take the couch." He set his glass down with a quiet click. "Unless you'd prefer to share?"

Her breath hitched. The barest tremor in her posture, a quick intake of air.

Got you. He saw the internal battle, the flicker of surprise, perhaps even a hint of something else in her eyes before she quickly masked it. This was the first true test of their forced proximity, and her reaction was more telling than any grand gesture.

THE PRODUCER'S CUT

"They're not hooking up?"

The director groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face as he stared at the live feed from the suite's hidden cameras. Nathaniel and Arora were on opposite sides of the room—her curled up in bed with a book, him scowling at his laptop on the couch, the very picture of platonic discomfort.

Jake grinned, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. "Give it time." He knew. He always knew.

"We don't have time," the director snapped, pulling at his collar. "The network wants chemistry, not a fucking chess match. We sold this as 'America's Ultimate Temptation,' not 'America's Most Awkward Roommates!'"

Jake's grin widened, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Oh, it's a chess match alright." He nodded at the screen, where Nathaniel's gaze, despite his focus on the laptop, kept flickering toward Arora. Even through the grainy camera, Jake could sense the pull, the subtle energy between them. "And Nate just made his first move. The trick is, the game just started. And no one, not even Nate, knows what the queen's going to do next."

ARORA'S DREAM

She woke gasping, her skin slick with sweat, the echo of a touch still burning between her thighs.

The dream had been vivid—Nathaniel's mouth on her neck, his hands pinning her wrists, his voice whispering "You're the exception" as he—

A floorboard creaked.

Arora froze.

Nathaniel stood at the foot of the bed, backlit by the city skyline, his bare chest gleaming in the moonlight. He wasn't looking at her directly, but at something unseen beyond the window. He was a silent, powerful silhouette.

"Bad dream?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep, startlingly soft.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "No." The lie tasted bitter.

His gaze dropped to her white-knuckled grip on the sheets, then slowly, deliberately, swept up to meet her eyes. "Liar." There was no accusation, only a quiet certainty.

Then he turned and walked away, back to the couch, leaving her aching and furious. And more confused than ever. The line between reality and dream, between aversion and an undeniable pull, blurred in the quiet darkness of the suite.