TVE (3-4) | ENG

 3 — Timebomb

The jet engines murmured softly, slicing through the air above the clouds. Inside the cabin, dimmed lights cast a tranquil glow—at odds with the storm churning inside the heads of its two passengers. Steve sat back with an iPad resting on his lap, fingers tapping busily at the screen.

“Okay. Done.” He exhaled, then took a sip of the iced coffee he’d barely touched. “All the hotel reservations in eight countries are canceled. Some gave refunds, some were stubborn as hell. You really…” He turned to the man across from him. “…don’t mind burning this much money?”

Isaac didn’t answer. His gaze was vacant, fixed beyond the window, as though the dark sweep of sky outside held more interest than the figures Steve had just implied.

Steve rubbed his forehead, then took a breath. “Can I offer a suggestion?”

“Hm?” Isaac glanced over, his expression flat.

“Disclaimer first.” Steve lifted a hand, a preemptive gesture. “One, I’m just stating facts from the black market. Two, this is only an option. An option that—through the lens of a modern, materialistic man—is both the most logical and the most profitable move.”

Isaac frowned. “What are you getting at?”

Steve leaned back, weighing his words. “My cousin’s into hunting rare items on the black market. A while ago, he showed me something… a painting by Ferris Rutherford up for auction at a ridiculous price.”

The mention made Isaac look at him sharply.

“I’m serious. Fez’s painting.” Steve nodded. “Ironic, right? After the scandal broke, the value of his work shot up tenfold. Paintings people once bought casually are now selling for millions of pounds.”

Isaac said nothing. A bitter smile flickered across his face, then vanished.

“I don’t mean to be crass,” Steve continued carefully, “but the fact is, Fez’s tragedy has become a money machine for anyone who managed to buy his work early.”

“And your point is?” Isaac’s voice had gone cold.

Steve reached into his bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Names were printed across it. “There were nine celebrities who served as Fez’s muses. If you were to release those paintings onto the black market…” He paused, then spread his hands. “Boom. Their value would go even crazier. Ultra-rare pieces, soaked in story. Murderabilia plus celebrity nude.” He held Isaac’s gaze. “A lethal combination. I’d wager each could fetch at least tens of millions of pounds.”

Isaac leaned back, the bitter curve of his smile deepening. He only shook his head.

Steve pressed on. “I know it sounds exploitative. But come on, man—it’s money. You wouldn’t even have to get involved directly. There are brokers who’d handle everything. First, you don’t know those celebrities. Second, you wouldn’t be carrying any personal burden. This is purely about leveraging an opportunity. And the third reason—”

“Enough.” Isaac cut him off, sharp as a blade. “First, I made a promise to Fez—to return what rightfully belongs to them. Second, I don’t want Fez’s case to become even more sensationalized. The more his work circulates, the uglier the stigma attached to his name becomes. He’ll be condemned all over again. Third…” Isaac drew a long breath. “…I don’t want to live my life haunted by the knowledge that I profited from all of this.”

Silence followed. Only the low, steady hum of the jet engines filled the cabin.

Steve finally let out a short, bitter laugh. “So this is a crusade for morality, then.” He glanced at the figures on his iPad. “At the modest price of one hundred and fifty million pounds.”

Isaac stared straight ahead, fatigue weighing on his features. “I’m thinking about a promise that needs to be kept,” he said quietly. “Not the price of paintings.”

Steve sighed and leaned back, his fingers tapping lightly against the small table in front of him. “And you’re confident those celebrities will actually keep their scandalicious little artworks? You put too much faith in people. Who knows—once they realize what they’re worth, temptation might win. Your noble attempt to protect their privacy could end up meaningless, Ike.”

Isaac fell silent, turning the words over in his mind. Then he inhaled deeply. “What matters is that I’ve done what I believe is right. Beyond that—what they choose to do with their own paintings… that’s out of my control.”

Steve nodded faintly, though his eyes gleamed with barely restrained curiosity. “I can already picture it. The world would explode all over again if one of them sold their painting. His reputation would become a paradox—more condemned than ever, yet his work only grows more valuable.”

Isaac gave a thin, hollow smile. “These paintings are ticking time bombs, aren’t they?”

“Exactly.” Steve leaned forward. “But since you’ve decided to return them, fine. Let those bombs rest again in the hands of the very people who gave them a reason to exist in the first place.” He paused, but curiosity soon pressed in again. “If you don’t mind me asking… are there still any of Fez’s paintings you’ve kept at home?”

Isaac lowered his gaze for a moment, then nodded faintly. “A few. Stored away neatly—collecting dust—at his parents’ house.”

“Ordinary paintings, or the scandalicious kind?”

“Ordinary ones. No scandals attached.”

Steve let out a short laugh. “Even those could be a gold mine. You do realize that, right?”

Isaac clicked his tongue, unwilling to engage.

Steve didn’t let up. “I’m not trying to disrespect your family’s situation. I know all of this left scars. And yes, Fez’s paintings can reopen those wounds. But if we’re being realistic, you could make a fortune on the black market. Just imagine it—call the collection The Fallen Champion: The Last Ten Paintings. Branding, Ike. The rarer it gets, the more unhinged the market becomes. Trust me.”

Isaac turned slowly, his stare cold. “So I squeeze money out of murderabilia, is that it? Exploit Fez’s case.”

Steve shrugged. “You’ve already been exploited by the world for months because your family’s story is so deliciously tragic. Why not flip the script? Take something back. Don’t tell me your moral fence extends even to those harmless paintings.”

Isaac looked at him, exhausted. “Why are you so determined to push me into selling them?”

Steve smiled thinly. “Because if you just leave them tucked away, the irony is this—decades from now, those paintings could resurface as historical artifacts. Their value might explode even more obscenely once they’re rediscovered.”

Isaac drew a long breath and leaned his head back against the seat. “I’m tired,” he said flatly. His eyes slid shut, as if drawing a curtain over the conversation.

Steve stared at him, unsatisfied. “I’m not finished.”

No response.

“Isaac?” he tried again.

Silence.

Steve clicked his tongue in irritation and leaned back. “You are unbelievable…” he muttered, but the man across from him was already asleep—or at least pretending to be.

Once more, the jet engines became the cabin’s only music, swallowing the argument whole as if it had never existed.

4 – Five Cities, Five Women, One Isaac Going Downhill 

They never touched each other. Not even once. But every one of them left the same trace on Isaac’s skin—and somewhere behind his eyes.

Berlyn

Isaac still remembered how Sabine Gründgens told him to sit—she didn’t ask. Her words came out cool and clipped, not even bothering with eye contact. She spoke like a general issuing orders to a soldier who’d strayed too close to her line.

She barely acknowledged him when he handed over the portrait—her portrait—painted in fierce strokes of bluish grey. A brief glance, then a curt, “Lean it there.”
No thank-you. No pleasantries.

Before he could even settle, Sabine turned. Her heels struck the parquet in perfect rhythm, each step measured, deliberate. She stopped in front of him and gave another order, her voice low but edged like glass.

“Take off your watch. I want to see skin, not a Ralex.”

Isaac hesitated, uncertain he’d heard her right. But her eyes left no room for misunderstanding. They didn’t just command—they stripped.

He unbuckled the strap and placed the watch carefully on the side table. His fingers felt colder than they should have, though he didn’t yet know why. Maybe it was her perfume—bitter orange, vetiver, and something faintly toxic. Even the scent felt authoritarian, dictating his breath without consent.

His knees weakened, and he sank into the chair as though surrendering. The room—modern, industrial, obsessively composed—hummed with a strange voltage. No music. Just the tick of a clock, the soft cadence of two measured breaths. Sabine allowed no warmth, no prelude, no tenderness.

And that, more than anything, made Isaac’s blood run hotter.

Sabine wasn’t flirting. She was asserting control. Her gaze was sharp, deliberate—not frozen but calculating. She moved like a dancer concealing a blade in the folds of her pencil skirt, every step closer thinning the air around them.

Then, without warning, she knelt between his knees.
Her skirt drew up slightly, revealing the pale, taut lines of her thighs. Isaac almost pulled back, but before he could move, her fingers—slender, cool, immaculate—touched his chin.

She lifted it with two fingers, as though assessing the quality of some captured animal.

“Don’t be so tense,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. “Unless you like being controlled.”

Isaac met her eyes—steel-grey, unwavering, uninviting. He knew how easy it would be to fall; one tilt of his head, one breath too close, and he’d be gone.

But before gravity could claim him, he gathered what was left of his restraint. With a quick, almost courteous motion, he touched her arm and eased her back—a refusal firm enough to be understood, gentle enough not to wound.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice rough. “That’s not why I came to Berlyn.”

Sabine regarded him for a long moment, then let out a small, dry laugh—lips unmoving, almost soundless.

“Of course not,” she said. “But your body tells a different story.”

Isaac rose, fastening his watch with trembling hands. He said nothing—just inclined his head in a gesture of faint respect and walked to the door.

Sabine didn’t stop him.

Her voice followed instead, sharp as a knife thrown from a distance. “You know, Fez never said no. But you… you’re interesting, Isaac. Because you still try to resist.”

In the cold, silent corridor, Isaac finally exhaled. The air bit at his lungs, but at least he could breathe again. For now, he was safe.

His knees still shook. His breath came uneven. But he’d made it out without lasting damage—at least physically.

Leaning against the wall, he rubbed a hand over his face, still hot from the tension.

“Jesus, Fez… that woman was your ex? Seriously?”

He shut his eyes and shook his head. “If Adolf Heinzter had a granddaughter,” he muttered, “that was her. Terrifying, sadistic, and somehow magnetic—all at once.”

Then he laughed—a dry, breathless sound, the kind you make when you’ve just walked out of a small, private hell.

Miran

Alessia Donati merely smiled and gave a soft nod as Isaac placed her portrait beside the small round table of Carrara marble that reflected the penthouse’s quiet luxury.

She didn’t approach him. Didn’t touch him. Didn’t even offer her hand. And yet, somehow, the entire room seemed to move with her—air bending to her rhythm.

Isaac felt it too: an invisible wire at his ankles, holding him still.

Alessia walked toward the wide window, her back to him. The city lights of Miran brushed her silhouette, turning her into the living version of the painting he’d just delivered. The pale red dress traced her form with impossible precision, and her movement—silent, measured—reminded Isaac of haute couture models walking in a private show.

Her voice didn’t need volume; it had texture. Like satin gliding through air, leaving memory instead of sound. Every word she spoke lingered like perfume—costly, controlled, unforgettable.

Isaac clasped his hands behind his back, breathing evenly though he could sense the direction this was headed. He took one step forward and said, politely, “If you’d like, perhaps you should check the painting first—just to be sure it’s really yours.”

Alessia turned slightly, her smile unbroken. Her eyes met his over her shoulder like bullets that knew exactly where the heart was but chose not to fire.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said softly, her Iralian accent smoothing every syllable into a whisper. “I trust you.”

Then she turned fully, leaning back against the window frame, hands resting on the sill. “If you stay tonight,” she said, voice low and sure, “I promise—you won’t regret it.”

Her voice didn’t change—calm, unhurried. And that was precisely what made her offer feel like a test: gentle, effortless, impossible to refuse.

There was nothing romantic in it. No sudden touch, no stolen kiss, no soft plea in her eyes. And yet Isaac could feel it—the quiet gravity she carried, that strange dominion without theatrics. A beauty that never offered itself, but always knew it would be desired.

And Isaac knew—it was happening again.

The third time. Claire in Parice. Sabine in Berlyn. Now Alessia in Miran.

They didn’t know one another, but they felt like emissaries sent by the same indifferent universe, each testing some unfinished part of him.

He had to get out. Had to find his way back before he forgot what “home” even meant.

One step back. One long breath. “Thank you for your kindness, Alessia,” he said quietly, inclining his head. “But I’ve got a flight to catch.”

Alessia smiled again—wider this time. Like someone who knew she wasn’t the first to be refused, and wouldn’t be the last. Though perhaps… she’d be the one he remembered longest.

Barceluna

“If you keep staring at me like that, I might think you’re falling for me,” teased Aracely Blanco, nudging his shoulder lightly, like a self-assured college girl in the hallway—yet her poise and tone were too deliberate to be mere mischief.

They sat atop a rooftop bar overlooking the Barceluna sea, city lights stretching like false constellations, and the sea breeze tangled in Aracely’s burgundy hair like a small, untamed flame.

Isaac smiled then—the first since leaving Parice, since his emotions had frozen during the endless travel from country to country, face to face. But Aracely, with her careless yet deadly precision, had broken down that wall in a single sentence, a single smile, a shoulder lingering just long enough.

Yet her laughter was dangerous. Sweet, yes, but sharp underneath—like a knife coated in honey. Because Isaac knew… behind that smile lay a trap. Not a usual trap—no cooing, no shy pretense. A trap that said: play close, but never fall. Draw near, but don’t cross the line.

Aracely knew she was a game—and that’s exactly what made her lethal. Every movement rehearsed a thousand times in the mirror yet appeared natural. She invited someone into an arena she already owned.

Her laughter returned, playful, innocent. She leaned back, crossing her legs. The night air would have chilled her thin dress, yet she seemed never to have intended playing safe.

“Don’t take it too seriously. I won’t bite… unless you ask,” she whispered. Beneath the table, her heels brushed his shoes—intentionally or not, Isaac didn’t know. And he didn’t want to.

He laughed, a short, reflexive sound, then fell silent. Because the truth was, Aracely would bite—not with teeth, but in the way a woman knows a man’s weaknesses. And Isaac, despite scars and flight, remained human. His heart raced when her shoulder brushed his, when light banter became a hidden challenge. He sipped slowly, hoping the bitter taste would remind him who he was—and the boundaries that must remain. But with Aracely… those boundaries were like fog: near yet untouchable, shifting every time he tried to step away.

Mondreal

Elodie Hartley had only said she wanted “to talk in the kitchen.” What happened after that was nowhere near a casual conversation.

She walked ahead without looking back, into the small art-deco kitchen of her penthouse—everything in soft white and pale gold, windows stretching floor to ceiling, the city lights glimmering beyond them, the distant clock tower piercing the skyline. Keneda’s Big Ben, Isaac thought—until he realized his eyes hadn’t left the woman in front of him.

She wore an oversized cream sweater that hung carelessly off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her collarbone. Her hair was loosely pinned, stray wisps brushing her cheeks. Barefoot, she moved across the marble floor in near silence.

She didn’t ask him to sit. She simply reached for two tall glasses, stirred a silver spoon between her fingers, and pulled a bottle of milk from the fridge.

Isaac watched—too polite to leave, too intrigued not to.

“Milkshake,” Elodie said lightly. “I’m craving something cold, sweet… maybe a little intoxicating.”

“Sounds like trouble,” Isaac murmured.

Elodie smiled, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Oh, Isaac. Everything that feels good sounds like trouble.”

She poured the milk into the blender, added ice, cocoa powder, vanilla ice cream—and calmly pressed the switch. The hum filled the quiet kitchen.

Isaac couldn’t look away. Not because he meant to stare, but because his body had already decided to.

And Elodie wasn’t done.

She took whipped cream from the fridge and crowned each milkshake with a perfect spiral—too precise to be casual. Then—without warning—she dipped her index finger into the cream, raised it slowly to her lips, and slipped it into her mouth.

The motion was unhurried, deliberate. As if she were genuinely testing the taste—yet fully aware she was being watched. Her tongue brushed the tip of her finger before she smiled, faint and dangerous as a half-kept promise.

Isaac felt as though he were trapped in a slow-motion film—only he was the actor no one had given a script to.

His body went rigid, a soldier’s reflex before the blast.

He took a small step back, the way someone does when they realize they’ve just stepped on emotional landmine and aren’t sure whether the next movement will set it off.

Elodie laughed—softly, almost a sigh that barely disturbed the air.

“I forgot to mention…” She licked the trace of cream from her fingertip and let her eyes find his. “I like making people nervous. Especially the ones who think they’re always in control.”

Isaac didn’t laugh. He just furrowed his brow, holding back a direct reply, resisting the easy trap she laid before him.

“You know,” Elodie continued, pouring the milkshake into two glasses, “there’s a part of you that wonders what would happen if you… let go.”

He took the glass she handed him. Thick, sweet chocolate, crowned with a perfect swirl of whipped cream that suddenly felt like more than decoration.

“And you know,” Isaac said finally, voice low, sharp, deliberate, “there’s a part of you that wants to see if I’ll fall for your game—or if I won’t.”

Elodie paused, just for a breath, then smiled faintly.

“Touché,” she whispered, leaning her hip against the table. “But I’m not playing, Isaac. I’m just… being honest. Just myself.”

“If that’s your honesty,” he countered, the corner of his mouth twitching, “I’d hate to see what you look like when you lie.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

He sipped, slow, deliberate, letting the chocolate coat his tongue, then met her gaze without flinching. “I’m more afraid of myself when I start enjoying it.”

For the first time, she looked slightly unsettled—he had almost turned the tables.

“Good,” she said at last. “That means you still have control. For now.”

They didn’t speak after that. Just eyes, just secrets, just restraint.

But Isaac knew that night wasn’t about chocolate milkshakes. Not really.

It was a quiet conversation between two adults who knew how to dance with fire without touching. And for the first time in a long while, Isaac felt… heat—not from passion, not from desire, but from the invisible tension Elodie created with nothing more than words and a cream-stained finger.

Not coffee, not alcohol, not a kiss.

Just two glasses of milkshake. And one woman who made a man like Isaac feel like he was walking a tightrope—without a net.

Los Aneles 

Selena Vale didn’t touch him. Not once.

She merely stood in the doorway, accepted the canvas, and motioned him inside—silent, deliberate, graceful.

Inside, she spoke little. She unwrapped the painting slowly, like revealing a buried memory. Warm light caught the canvas: half-smile, slightly disheveled hair, eyes that had seen too much but remained silent. Honest, raw—a part of her revealed only to the brush, the canvas, and the one capable of holding it.

She leaned the painting against the wall, hiding it from him, then sat beside him on the turquoise velvet sofa. Calm, unreadable.

Silence. Time stretched. Dim light drew them close without a touch.

Finally, her voice broke the quiet, soft but unwavering.

“You carry too much, Isaac,” she said, almost like a mourning song. “You deserve love… without having to earn it, without paying.”

Her words were gentle poison, warm, inviting, deadly in their honesty. Slowly, they seeped into the locked parts of his chest—the parts hardened by cynicism, by a world that demanded, expected, extracted.

For a heartbeat, he almost believed her. Almost let himself believe that someone could truly see him. Not the fame, not the name, not the scars, not the body that seemed strong even when fragile.

And precisely because of that… he had to leave. Save himself from hope too beautiful to hold.

Isaac knew: the most dangerous seduction isn’t teasing or flirting. It’s someone looking at you and quietly saying, “You deserve love.”

And the softest voice can carry the deepest truth.

On the jet, eyes closed, he tried to trade exhaustion for sleep.

But the faces came anyway, one by one, like cities he could never truly leave.

Berlyn. Barceluna. Miran. Mondreal. Los Aneles.
Sabine. Aracely. Alessia. Elodie. Selena.

Five cities. Five women. Five ways to seduce… and dismantle defenses.

Some cold and commanding, some playful like a summer evening, some soft as a whisper, some intoxicatingly sweet, some too deep to resist.

Isaac exhaled slowly, as if his lungs couldn’t bear the weight of memories so dense.

At least I slept with no one, he reminded himself—a mantra since Parice.

But he knew the danger wasn’t always flesh. Sometimes, seduction is making someone want to stay… just one more night.

And that is the most dangerous game of all.