Anastasia couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't move.
Bastian had just told her he loved her. Again. As if fate had spun them back to the beginning, erasing years of pain, grief, and longing. But before she could even process the weight of his words, his entire expression shifted—eyes wide, lips parting like a realization had just struck him. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone, soaring into the night without another word.
"Bastian?" she called after him, but he was already a distant shadow against the moon.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. What the hell just happened? She sat there, on the rooftop where her world had shattered once before, gripping the edge like it might somehow steady her racing thoughts. Then, as if grounding herself, her fingers drifted down to her stomach. A small, barely-there smile touched her lips.
"Everything's going to be just fine, little one," she whispered.
Twenty minutes later, Bastian returned, his descent silent, effortless. But there was something different. A flicker of excitement in his eyes. Subtle, but there.
She crossed her arms, narrowing her gaze. "What was that about?"
"You'll see."
Vague. Unhelpful.
He took her hand and pulled her toward the rooftop staircase. She didn't resist, but still threw him a skeptical glance. "You do realize we can just fly out of here, right?"
He nodded but kept walking. "We're not leaving anytime soon."
Her brows knitted together. "Bastian, what are you up to?"
He didn't answer. Just looked back at her with a knowing smirk, his grip on her hand firm as he led her down several flights of stairs. The corridor they stepped into was warm and inviting, the soft yellow lighting casting a golden glow on the deep-red carpet. Old framed pictures lined the walls—snapshots of the hotel from its earliest days. It was strange. She had spent so many nights here on the rooftop, yet she had never stepped foot inside the actual hotel.
And then they stopped.
In front of door number 18.
Her gaze flickered to him, questioning.
And then he pulled a key card from his pocket and swiped it.
The door clicked open.
"Bastian," she breathed, her confusion deepening as he tugged her inside.
The suite was stunning. Luxurious. A hidden world beneath her feet all these years. The walls were painted a deep, sultry blue, offset by golden accents. A massive king-sized bed stood at the center, draped in crisp, high-thread-count linens. The large windows framed the breathtaking night skyline, city lights twinkling like fallen stars. And the bathroom—she caught a glimpse of it through an open door—boasted a deep soaking tub, marble countertops, and heated floors.
She turned to him. "How—?"
"Billy gave me some money. Just in case we needed a place while we were out. Or… if we ever decided to stay." He hesitated for half a beat, his fingers running through his hair. "I got this room specifically. Room 18."
She blinked.
"Eighteen," he continued. "Your birthday. The night we kissed for the first time."
A lump formed in her throat.
He remembered that? He remembered something that small, that intimate, when he had lost so many pieces of himself?
Emotion swelled inside her. But then—
His next words stole the air from her lungs.
"This is where I want to make love to you."
Her breath hitched.
Bastian had never been this forward before. Not even when they were teenagers, tangled up in young, reckless love. But this was different. This was him making a choice. A deliberate, undeniable choice.
She swallowed. "Are you sure?"
His answer wasn't words.