At the Top

The rooftop bar occupied the very top floor of the hotel. Soft music wrapped around the room, smooth and weightless, almost as soft as the oversized lounge chairs people practically disappeared into. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, Washington D.C. stretched out beneath them in shimmering late-morning light.

From up here, the city looked incredible.

Historic monuments — nearly three centuries of American history carved into stone — stood between sleek towers of glass and steel. Drones buzzed through the skyline like oversized metallic insects. Autonomous ferries traced perfect lines across the dark surface of the Potomac. Far below, the tops of green trees swayed gently in the wind.

And yet something about it all felt deeply wrong.

Marie couldn’t see it.

But she could feel it.

The city reminded her of Jenkins: polished on the surface, elegant from a distance — and underneath, cold, rigid, deeply misogynistic.

Steve guided her toward a table directly beside the windows. On the way, he caught the bartender’s eye and casually raised two fingers.

He waited for her to sit, pulling out her chair.

Such a gentleman.

That made him dangerous.

The drinks arrived almost immediately. A single heavy pour of amber in each glass. As Marie lifted hers, rich notes of vanilla and caramel drifted upward, layered with oak and spice.

“Whiskey?” she asked.

“Bourbon.”

Way too early in the day for bourbon.

Then again, maybe already way too late.

She took a much larger sip than she meant to. The bourbon burned all the way down her throat.

Perfect.

Warmth spread slowly through her chest and stomach, dangerous in the way only strong **** could be.

Steve watched her drink.

Not possessively. Not judging.

Just... attentive.

Like he actually cared what happened to her.

And somehow that unsettled her more than if he’d been another cold, power-hungry asshole like Jenkins.

She took another sip too fast and coughed lightly.

A quick grin flickered across Steve’s face — real amusement this time.

Damn.

That look worked on him.

Marie slowly turned the glass between her fingers. The **** was already softening the sharp edges of her fears. Not erasing them. Just blurring them enough that she could breathe again.

“You know what happened downstairs,” she said quietly.

Not really a question.

Steve blinked once.

Of course he knew. Knowing was part of his job.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” she admitted, staring out at the skyline. “And at the same time I knew it was a mistake.”

A bitter smile crossed her face.

“And I did it anyway.”

Steve stayed silent.

Outside, an angry swarm of police drones swept between the towers, flashing blue lights across the glass like something out of a dystopian fever dream.

Finally he spoke.

“You couldn’t have stopped him.”

His voice stayed calm. Matter-of-fact. No pity. No outrage. Just reality.

And somehow that hit harder than judgment would have.

If he’d insulted her, blamed her, called her weak — she could’ve fought back against that. Anger would’ve been easier.

Instead he handed her the truth and left her alone with it.

She wasn’t ready for that.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” she shot back.

Steve slowly shook his head.

His eyes looked strangely sad.

“No,” he said quietly. “You still don’t get it.”

He leaned back slightly, lowering his voice.

“My presence is the only thing protecting you right now. If I wasn’t sitting here, nothing would stop that bartender from dragging you behind the counter and making you get on your knees for him. Or just fuck you right here on the table.”

Marie instinctively glanced toward the bar.

The bartender was young, handsome in a clean-cut American way, perfectly styled and sharply dressed. In Europe, she probably would’ve flirted with him. Maybe even have taken him back to her room after enough drinks.

She couldn’t reconcile that image with the one Steve had just painted.

Steve must’ve read the disbelief on her face.

“You think I’m exaggerating?” he asked.

Then he looked toward the bar.

“I’ll prove it.”

No smile.

No teasing.

Nothing playful about it.

Marie knew she should shut it down immediately. Tell him no. Tell him she didn’t want whatever game this was.

But the bourbon and the fading adrenaline had worn holes in her defenses. And beneath the fear, something else had begun to emerge.

Steve raised a hand and motioned for the bartender to come over.