Geneva, Switzerland
Max
Geneva was supposed to be clean. Efficient. Predictable.
Max had come here expecting order. The summit was scheduled down to the minute—panels, press, private meetings. All meticulously planned. She'd even let herself relax slightly on the flight over. The air would be crisp. The schedule tight. The distractions minimal.
That fantasy died at check-in.
"We're terribly sorry, Ms. Sterling," the receptionist said in apologetic French-tinged English. "Due to an overbooking issue, your suite has already been assigned."
Max blinked. "I confirmed three times."
"Yes, we see that." A nervous smile. "But there's only one suite remaining. The Presidential. It's… currently occupied by Ms. Kaiser, but she's agreed to—share."
Max's spine straightened. "Absolutely not."
A beat.
Then a familiar, low voice from just behind her. "Oh relax, Maxine. We've already shared a stage. What's a few square meters of penthouse?"
Max turned. Aurelia leaned against the marble pillar like she'd been waiting for this exact moment. Her white coat was draped open to reveal a fitted cream blouse, her heels clicked with confidence, and her passport case was designer and disgustingly smug.
"I'll sleep on the balcony," Max muttered.
"You're afraid of what might happen," Aurelia teased, brushing past her. "Don't worry. I'm not nearly drunk enough to kiss you again."
Yet, her eyes seemed to add.
Max ground her teeth. "Fine. One night."
The Luxury Innovation Summit had drawn the industry's elite to Geneva—CEOs, creative directors, tech pioneers, and sustainability experts from around the globe. It was the kind of event that required attendance, regardless of personal preferences. The kind that shaped public perception and influenced investor confidence. The kind where absence would be noted and analyzed.
Which meant that for the next three days, Max would be sharing the same conference spaces, the same networking events, the same rarified air as Aurelia Kaiser.
She'd prepared for that inevitability. Had rehearsed polite, professional interactions. Had steeled herself for chance encounters in hotel lobbies and crowded reception halls.
What she hadn't prepared for was sharing a suite with the woman she'd been desperately trying to forget since that night in the bar. The woman whose taste still lingered in her memory like a ghost she couldn't exorcise.
They rode the elevator in silence. Well—Max was silent. Aurelia hummed something that sounded suspiciously like one of the cocktail names from that nameless Manhattan bar.
Suite 927 was sprawling—floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of Lake Geneva glittering like a postcard. Plush rugs, modern furniture, a bottle of welcome champagne already chilling on ice.
And one bed.
One very large, very shared bed.
Max stared.
"It's not a trap," Aurelia said behind her. "Though it could be."
She toed off her heels and padded into the living area like she already owned the place. Max dropped her briefcase by the desk, ignored the champagne, and called for housekeeping. Cot? Sofa bed? Anything.
No one answered.
Aurelia returned with a grimace. "Also, the A/C's out. And the windows are sealed. Probably some Swiss preservation regulation."
Max inhaled sharply. "Of course it is."
She glanced at her watch. Six hours until the welcome reception. Six hours to navigate this impossible situation with some semblance of dignity. Six hours to establish boundaries that should have been unnecessary given their professional status and personal history.
Six hours to pretend that her heart wasn't racing at the mere thought of sharing space with Aurelia again.
"I'll take the couch," Max said firmly, moving her suitcase toward the living area.
Aurelia's laugh followed her. "Don't be ridiculous. That thing is designed for looking, not sleeping. It's practically a sculpture."
Max turned to find Aurelia already unpacking, hanging clothes in the massive closet with practiced efficiency. Her movements were fluid, unhurried, as if sharing accommodations with her professional rival was entirely ordinary.
"There are two closets," Aurelia pointed out, not looking up. "And frankly, two sides to that bed. I promise not to invade your territory." A pause, then with a hint of mischief: "Unless invited."
Max felt heat creep up her neck. "That won't be necessary."
Aurelia shrugged, the gesture elegant and dismissive. "Suit yourself. The bathroom has two sinks, by the way. I'll take the one nearest the window."
And just like that, she was establishing a rhythm, creating spaces, setting a tone that was neither overtly hostile nor inappropriately familiar. Professional with an edge of something Max couldn't quite name.
Max found herself responding in kind, unpacking her own things with methodical precision, arranging her toiletries in perfect alignment, setting up her laptop at the desk furthest from where Aurelia had arranged her papers.
They moved around each other like dancers following an unwritten choreography—never too close, never touching, but always aware of the other's presence. The space between them charged with something neither would acknowledge.
The heat began to build as afternoon sun streamed through the panoramic windows. Max rolled up her sleeves, loosened her collar, and tried to focus on her notes for tomorrow's panel.
But her gaze kept drifting to Aurelia, who had changed into a light sundress and was now stretching on the balcony, afternoon light gilding her profile as she spoke on the phone in rapid, musical French.
Max forced her attention back to her screen.
This was going to be a very long night.
---
Aurelia
By 11PM, it was a sauna.
The thermostat blinked a mocking 29°C. Max had retreated to the living area in her blouse and slacks, hair damp with humidity and disdain. Aurelia had long since changed into silk shorts and a loose tank top—modest by her standards, scandalous by Max's.
She sprawled across the bed, one arm draped over her forehead.
"You're going to overheat in that," she called toward the couch.
"I'm fine," came Max's voice—sharp, tight, lying.
"You're sweating."
"I don't sweat. I glisten."
Aurelia rolled onto her side, propped on one elbow. "You're being dramatic."
"I'm being professional."
"You're being stubborn."
No answer.
The welcome reception had been exactly as expected—speeches about innovation and sustainability, champagne that cost more than some people's monthly rent, quiet business conversations disguised as small talk. Max and Aurelia had orbited each other all evening—never directly interacting, but always aware of the other's location in the room.
Aurelia had watched Max work the room with that precise, controlled charm she wielded like a weapon. All perfect posture and perfect answers and perfect distance. Not a hair out of place despite the persistent heat that had everyone else looking slightly wilted.
It was impressive. And infuriating.
Because Aurelia knew what lay beneath that perfect exterior. Had tasted it in that bar in Manhattan. Had felt the tension radiating from her all day in their shared suite. Had caught her looking when she thought Aurelia wouldn't notice.
Aurelia waited another beat, then: "Look. It's a king-sized bed. We're adults. We're not going to die of proximity."
Silence.
Then soft, reluctant footsteps.
Max appeared in the doorway, now in a black camisole and sleep shorts—both plain and maddeningly flattering. She didn't meet Aurelia's eyes as she climbed into the opposite side of the bed with military precision.
They lay still. Like statues. Opposite ends of an invisible battlefield.
The sheets stuck to their skin. A bead of sweat slid between Aurelia's shoulder blades.
She let out a sigh.
"This is ridiculous."
Max didn't answer.
Then: "Why did you kiss me?"
Aurelia blinked into the dark.
"You kissed me."
"You dared me."
"You didn't have to say yes."
Max turned her head. The city lights cast her profile in soft gold. Her voice was low. "You dared me to prove I didn't want you."
"And?"
A beat. Then: "I failed."
Aurelia's heart flipped.
The admission hung in the air between them—simple words that carried the weight of years of denial. Of careful avoidance. Of the thing they'd been circling since Wharton but never acknowledged.
Want.
Not just physical attraction, though that was undeniable. But something deeper. More complicated. The kind of wanting that came from recognition. From seeing yourself reflected in someone else's ambition, someone else's drive, someone else's refusal to accept limitations.
Aurelia didn't speak.
Instead, she slowly reached across the gap between them—fingers brushing Max's wrist. Testing. Asking.
Max didn't pull away.
Instead, she rolled toward her, their foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling in the heat.
"I don't want to want you," Max whispered.
Aurelia smiled, slow and soft. "Too late."
She leaned in, brushing her lips against Max's—just a breath of contact. Just a question.
Max answered.
Her hand threaded into Aurelia's hair and pulled her closer, mouths meeting with heat that wasn't just about lust, but about relief. Finally. The kiss deepened slowly—like they were exploring something too dangerous to rush. Aurelia tilted her head and opened to her, sighing softly as Max's lips grazed hers again, then again, slower, more thorough.
Max kissed like she planned everything—each movement deliberate, perfectly timed. But her breath hitched when Aurelia's hand skimmed her side, lifting the edge of her camisole and touching bare skin.
It was soft, and it made Max shiver.
"You're cold," Aurelia murmured.
"No," Max whispered. "I'm not."
She shifted forward, pressing her body against Aurelia's, their thighs brushing, heat meeting heat. Fingers slipped under silk. Aurelia's palm found the curve of Max's hip, then her back, pulling her closer.
There was nothing frantic—only slow discovery. Touches that memorized instead of claimed. Max's hand moved along Aurelia's ribs, fingertips painting invisible lines, reverent in their path. Her mouth followed, grazing down Aurelia's neck, lingering at her pulse.
"You always smell like trouble," Max breathed, voice low and frayed.
Aurelia arched beneath her, letting her head fall back. "And you still can't stay away."
The sheets rustled as Max moved on top of her—one leg slipping between Aurelia's, anchoring them together. She kissed her again, deeper this time, her hands firm now, trailing down to Aurelia's thighs. Her mouth slid lower—jaw brushing over collarbone, lips grazing the delicate strap of her tank top.
Aurelia caught her breath, fingers fisting into the back of Max's camisole. She didn't want fast. She wanted all of her—every carefully hidden piece.
Max's lips returned to hers, and the kiss turned molten—so much tension unraveling at once, sighs filling the heat-heavy air. Their bodies moved with instinct, guided by years of tension and something they didn't yet dare name.
And when Max finally stilled above her, forehead resting against hers, Aurelia traced a finger along her spine and whispered, "Stay."
Just that.
Not a demand. Not a dare. Just the truth of what they both wanted.
Max didn't answer. She didn't have to.
She stayed.