Chapter 4: I Find You… Intriguing

Inside the penthouse reception lounge, the last light of day was slowly fading. The evening sky was brushed with a soft wash of orange, reflected across the vast, open space that stretched uninterrupted to the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. With no interior columns to break the view, the Chao Phraya River unfolded endlessly beyond the windows, Thailand’s great waterway glowing beneath the dying light.

The room was dressed entirely in black, gray, and white. Minimalist furniture sat in careful balance, understated yet unmistakably refined. Every piece spoke of value without ever needing a price tag.

And yet, despite the hour, when daylight outside had nearly vanished, the lights inside remained off.

The atmosphere hovered somewhere between beauty and darkness.

Not unlike Rafah herself, the woman who owned this place.

Rafah Witchakornin sat before a glossy black grand piano, dressed in a black turtleneck and matching trousers. Her long dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders as her fingers moved across the keys, gentle yet commanding.

The melody filled the space, resonating so deeply that Petra, who had just stepped inside, found herself holding her breath. She could not look away.

Rafah was beautiful. Mysterious.

And undeniably dangerous.

When the final note faded, Rafah’s voice replaced the silence.

“I thought you wouldn’t dare come see me after all, Petra.”

The greeting made Petra tense. She clenched her hands without realizing it before replying carefully.

“Why would you think that, Khun Rafah?”

Rafah rose from the piano and walked toward her, closing the distance one measured step at a time.

“I don’t know. You just seem afraid of me,” she said, stopping in front of Petra. “Why? Am I really that frightening?”

Her sharp gaze locked onto Petra, forcing her to look away. She stayed silent for a long moment, because she knew the truth.

What frightened her was not Rafah.

It was her own heart, slowly being claimed by this woman without her even noticing.

There was something about Rafah that pulled her in, drawing her closer again and again, until Petra herself no longer understood what was happening.

Like a moth drawn to a blazing flame, circling ever nearer, unaware that it was fire waiting to burn her alive.

“The piece you played earlier was beautiful,” Petra said at last, deliberately changing the subject. “What was it called?”

Rafah glanced at her, faintly surprised by the shift, but did not comment. She walked to the bar counter, poured wine into a crystal glass, and spoke calmly.

“Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp. If you’ve seen The Pianist, a 2002 film, you might remember it.”

Petra fell quiet. She knew neither the piece nor the film, but she chose not to ask, afraid of appearing lacking in front of Rafah. Yet Rafah spoke again, as if she had read her thoughts.

“Not knowing it isn’t strange,” she said evenly. “Music and films are personal tastes. I don’t know everything either.”

“Yes,” Petra replied, unsure what else to say.

Rafah studied her for a moment, then continued in the same calm tone.

“You look nice today. That night, you dressed quite sexily. But this softer dress suits you too. You look sweet.”

Petra nearly smiled, but forced her expression to remain neutral. She did not want Rafah to see how fast her heart was racing over a few simple words.

Rafah offered a faint smile and spoke casually.

“I had dinner prepared. Come eat with me. We can talk while we eat. Just relax. There’s no need to be tense.”

…

As they walked toward the dining room, Petra’s attention was drawn to the oil paintings lining the corridor walls, arranged like a private gallery.

She glanced at them absentmindedly at first, until one made her stop.

It was a large painting framed in black and gold. A black panther stared out from the canvas, its gaze sharp and commanding. Its jet-black fur glistened beneath moonlight that seemed to ripple across its body.

Petra halted without realizing it. Rafah noticed at once.

“That painting caught your eye?” Rafah asked.

Petra nodded. “It looks so majestic. Almost alive.”

“Sabriya.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s her name,” Rafah said. “Our foundation rescued her when she was still a cub. Her mother was killed by poachers near the border forests. We found her just in time. She nearly died of starvation.”

Petra listened closely, her gaze drifting to the lower corner of the painting. There, she noticed a small silver signature.

Rafah Witchakornin.

“You painted this yourself?” Petra asked, disbelief evident in her voice.

Rafah nodded slightly.

Petra’s heart skipped. Only then did it truly sink in that the woman standing beside her was not only beautiful, intelligent, and powerful, but also an artist.

Her eyes moved to the next painting.

It depicted a naked woman with her head bowed. Her pale body was half swallowed by shadow, a sheer veil draped over part of her face.

And in that painting, the woman had no features at all.

No eyes. No nose. No mouth. Only emptiness beneath the veil.

“This piece is called The Faceless,” Rafah said. “A woman without a face. No one knows whether she’s smiling or crying.”

Petra stared at it for a long moment. A quiet loneliness seemed to seep from every brushstroke.

“It feels so lonely,” she said softly. “Why did you paint this?”

Rafah paused.

“There’s no reason,” she replied shortly, then turned and walked on.

Petra remained where she was, sensing that the woman in that painting might be the truest reflection of Rafah herself.

…

The dining room was elegantly restrained. A long table of dark oak stretched through the center, its polished surface catching the soft shimmer of the crystal chandelier above. Beyond the wide glass wall, the Chao Phraya River lay quiet, slowly swallowing the last traces of evening light.

Petra sat straight-backed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. On the surface, she appeared composed. Inside, everything churned. She avoided Rafah’s gaze, but after nearly an hour of eating in silence, she could no longer endure it.

“So… why did you invite me here, Khun Rafah?”

Rafah paused before setting her fork down.

“You’re more impatient than I expected, Petra.”

“I’m not impatient,” Petra replied. “But for the past hour, you’ve been eating and staring at me. That’s uncomfortable.”

Rafah leaned back in her chair, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

“The reason I invited you here is simple. You watched Phat and me that night.”

Petra stiffened, then answered with forced calm.

“I already explained. I didn’t mean to watch, and I didn’t record anything. I went into that room to rest and fell asleep. When you came in, I panicked and hid behind the curtain. It tore. When you saw me, you didn’t listen. You took my phone and accused me of recording you.”

Rafah showed no reaction. She studied Petra for a long moment before speaking again, her tone even.

“Do you like taking sexy photos of yourself?”

Heat rushed to Petra’s face.

“I don’t mean explicit ones,” Rafah continued smoothly. “I mean wearing something a little revealing. Lying on your bed. Standing in front of a mirror. Photos meant to be attractive.”

Petra froze. In that instant, she understood.

Rafah had seen everything.

“Did you go through my private photos?” Petra asked tightly. “Those weren’t even on my phone anymore. Did you access my iCloud?”

“I needed to be certain there were no videos of me and Napassorn,” Rafah replied without hesitation.

Embarrassment burned across Petra’s skin. She pressed her lips together, then spoke firmly.

“Give me my phone back.”

Rafah handed it to her at once. The calm curve of her mouth only sharpened Petra’s anger.

“Anya told me you already bought a new phone,” Rafah continued. “I never planned to keep yours. I just needed to check it. I’ll compensate you for the phone and for your wasted time.”

“No,” Petra said sharply. “I don’t want a single baht from you.”

Rafah lifted an eyebrow and gave a low, amused laugh.

“You’re stubborn.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Petra shot back.

“Nothing.”

Rafah stood, walked around the table, and leaned forward. One slender hand rested on the edge of the table beside Petra. Her eyes locked onto Petra’s as her voice dropped.

“I find you intriguing,” she said quietly. “And very fuckable.”

Even though Rafah had switched to English, as if to soften the bluntness, the impact of the words hit just as hard.

Petra froze, then jumped to her feet.

“You…” Her voice shook, barely contained.

Rafah simply leaned back into her chair, lifted her wine glass, and took a slow sip, her gaze never leaving Petra.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

…