A five-star oasis tucked just off Wilshire Boulevard, The Peninsula Beverly Hills is known for its unmatched privacy and quiet glamour. Hidden behind lush gardens and palm-lined pathways, the hotel feels worlds away from the noise of Los Angeles, even though it sits in the heart of Beverly Hills.

Inside, everything is soft golds, creams, and marble—hand-tied carpets, crystal sconces, fresh flowers in every corner. The suites are spacious and elegant, each one featuring floor-to-ceiling windows with sweeping city views, deep soaking tubs, private terraces, and plush king beds dressed in crisp white linens.

The staff is discreet and attentive, famous for remembering names and disappearing just as quickly. It’s the kind of place where celebrities vanish for a night, and no one breathes a word.

The rooftop offers a heated pool, private cabanas, and panoramic views of the skyline, while the on-site spa and bar provide a serene escape from the chaos below.

Perfect for those needing luxury, privacy, and a touch of Old Hollywood romance.

The elevator doors parted with a soft chime, spilling warm, golden light across the deep carpeted hallway.
Imogen stepped out slowly, heart thudding once—just once—but hard enough to echo in her chest.

Suite 325. The rooftop villa.
She knew this place. Everyone in the industry did.
The kind of hotel where privacy wasn’t a commodity—it was a guarantee.
Where staff didn’t just look away; they forgot what they saw.

Her heels were still on from the afternoon’s press wrap, her hair tied in a loose knot, her bag hanging off one shoulder. She felt tired in that heavy, post-tour way—like she’d been a thousand different people in six months and was only now remembering how to be herself again.

The key card Avan had couriered to her door hours ago was warm between her fingers.

She didn’t know what to expect when she pushed the door open.

But she did know this:
Her contract with Devon ended tonight.
And Avan knew exactly what that meant.

The lights were low when she stepped inside, the room washed in a soft amber glow from hidden sconces and the Los Angeles dusk bleeding in through sheer curtains. The suite smelled faintly of bergamot and cedar—his scent, unmistakably. He’d been here recently.

Her breath caught.

The first thing she saw was the marble bathroom—doors wide open, like an invitation.

Candles lined the tub’s edge in careful symmetry, all unlit.
Dozens of them—ivory pillars, warm-toned jars, slim tapers.
A small wooden stool sat beside the oversized soaking tub, stacked with bath oils, rosewater cleanse, face masks, scalp treatments, massage balms.
Spa slippers. A plush robe folded over a chair.

He hadn’t filled the bath.
He’d left the choice for her.

Her throat tightened.

On the vanity counter lay a handwritten note, folded once, her name written in his slanted, unbothered handwriting.

She picked it up with careful fingers.

Love—
Thought you might like a night where no one needs you.
Bath’s yours to run. Candles if you want them. I’m getting champagne.
Take your time.
—A.

Her heart did that thing it always did with him—tightened, softened, opened all at once.

She leaned her hip against the marble, fingers brushing the edges of the bath oils.
Every detail was so unmistakably him—quiet, thoughtful, never pushing, always offering.

And he’d arrived early.
Set all this up.
Left so she wouldn’t feel crowded or watched.

A staycation.
A celebration.
A pause button she’d never once given herself.

She slipped off her heels, letting them thud softly against the expensive rug. The silence around her was plush, serene, the kind that only came from rooms built high above the city’s noise.

Somewhere down on Wilshire, horns honked.
Somewhere else, paparazzi shouted someone else’s name.
But up here?

Just candles.
Just steam waiting to happen.
Just peace.

She set the note down gently, smoothing it with her fingertips.
Her contract was done.
The lie of her relationship with Devon was almost over.
And Avan—
Avan had given her the first hour of her freedom wrapped in softness.

Instead of going further into the bathroom, she drifted into the main room—running her hand lightly along the back of the velvet sofa, trailing her fingers over the cool glass of the coffee table, taking in the quiet luxury he’d chosen for her.
She paused at the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing down at the glowing spine of the city—LA stretching wide and endless beneath her like a promise she didn’t have to outrun.

She was still standing there, breathing in the calm he’d created, when she heard the suite door unlock behind her.

Her heart rose instantly—recognition before thought.

She turned as Avan stepped inside, the soft click of the door closing marking his arrival as surely as his silhouette did.

He carried a small bag in one hand—champagne, probably—his expression shifting the moment he saw her.

Imogen’s lips curved, warm and soft.

“Hi,” she said quietly, the word threaded with something that felt like relief. “You’re back.”

Her voice wasn’t performed or polished.
It was hers—
and she offered it to him first.

Avan froze for half a second when he saw her.

Not because he was surprised she was there—he’d sent the key himself, had chosen this room with her in mind, had spent the last hour arranging the bath oils in the exact order he thought she might reach for them—but because of how she looked standing in the middle of the suite.

Barefoot.
Hair loose and soft around her face.
Her guard nowhere in sight.

Like she’d finally stepped out of the world that kept trying to script her.

The bag in his hand—champagne, strawberries, a bar of dark chocolate he’d grabbed on instinct—suddenly felt too loud, too clumsy compared to the quiet she’d wrapped around herself.

Her voice—Hi. You’re back.—hit him with an ache he tried not to show.

He shut the door gently behind him, careful not to break the calm he’d built for her. “Yeah,” he murmured, slipping the keycard into his pocket. “Didn’t want you waiting long.”

He crossed the room at an easy pace, not rushed, not hesitant—just sure. He stopped a couple feet from her, close enough to feel her warmth, far enough to let her choose the rest of the distance.

She looked… softer. Warmer. Untethered in a way he rarely got to see.

His eyes flicked briefly to the unlit candles, then back to her. “You found the note, then,” he said, a small, understated smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Good.”

He held up the bag slightly. “Figured we should mark the occasion. Champagne for your freedom. Chocolate for the mood. And—” His tone gentled, teasing only in the smallest degree. “—I got the rose one you pretend not to like but always finish first.”

Her expression shifted—something tender, something that made his chest feel too tight—and he set the bag down carefully on the table.

Then he looked at her properly.

Really looked.

Six months of touring and interviews and pretending had carved a certain tiredness into her posture, but right now, with the city glowing behind her and no masks left to hold up, she was breathtaking in a way that had nothing to do with fame.

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate—lifting a hand but stopping just shy of her cheek, giving her every chance to lean in or step back.

“You look…” His voice trailed, the word too small for the sight of her. He shook his head once, softly. “Peace suits you.”

His thumb brushed the air near her jaw—ghosting, offering, never assuming.

“I wanted tonight to be quiet,” he said. “No noise. No demands. Just… whatever you need.” His eyes met hers, steady, warm. “You’ve earned that much.”

He let the silence sit, let the weight of the room settle around them. The candles, the bath oils, the wide bed turned down, the soft robe waiting—it was all there for her, not for him.

And the way she was looking at him—like he was the first person she’d chosen freely in a long time—made something inside him loosen.

Finally, he spoke again, softer. Real.

“Imogen,” he murmured, “you’re free tonight. You don’t owe the world a damn thing. Not a headline. Not a performance.” His voice dropped even lower, gentle as his gaze. “You don’t owe me anything either. You’re here because you chose to be.”

He reached out then, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear—light as breath.

“And I’m very, very glad you did.”

A beat.

Then, with that quiet half-smile he only ever wore for her—
“Come here, love. Let me say hello properly.”

She didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

The moment he said Come here, love, a warmth bloomed in her chest so quickly she almost laughed at herself. Months of touring, months of smiling for cameras and rehearsing answers and pretending she didn’t miss him like oxygen — and all it took was two steps across a quiet suite to feel like herself again.

She crossed the room with an easy, loose kind of happiness she hadn’t felt in far too long. No choreography. No posture. Just bare feet and soft air and him.

When she slid into his arms, it wasn’t dramatic — it just felt right. Natural. Like the world had been tilted slightly wrong for months and finally snapped back into place.

His hands found her waist instantly, warm and certain, and she let herself melt, her cheek brushing the edge of his shoulder as she smiled.

“You know,” she murmured, voice muffled against him, “if you keep greeting me like this, I’m going to start expecting it.”

He huffed out a laugh — that quiet, warm one she always hoarded away — and she lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes.

“And for the record,” she added, her smile turning a little mischievous, “you absolutely outdid yourself. This suite is gorgeous. I walked in and thought I’d accidentally wandered into an ad for inner peace.”

His thumb brushed her waist and she leaned closer, enjoying the way his presence softened everything inside her.

She traced a gentle line along his jaw with her finger, playful but tender.
“Champagne, candles, fresh roses… you know this sets a very dangerous precedent, right?”

She slid her arms around his neck, pulling him just a little closer.

Her voice warmed, brimmed with something fizzy and sweet.

“And you’re right,” she said, leaning back just enough to tip her chin up at him. “Tonight is mine. And I intend to enjoy all of it.”

She poked his chest once — lightly, teasing.

“And you?” Her smile widened as she wiggled closer, practically glowing. “You’re part of the itinerary.”

His eyebrow lifted, amused — the slow, devastating kind of lift that made her feel like she’d just stepped into a game she absolutely intended to win.

“Yes,” she confirmed, grin turning soft and wicked all at once, “all bookings are final.”

Avan’s hands tightened at her waist the second she came into him — not possessive, just relieved, like he’d been bracing for the moment and finally got to exhale.

He didn’t hide the smile that hit him, either. One of those quiet, crooked ones that softened the edges of his features and made him look younger, warmer — human in a way he only ever let himself be around her.

When she teased about expecting this kind of greeting, he dipped his head slightly, his breath brushing her temple.

“Then I’ll make a habit of it,” he murmured, low and amused. “Not the worst thing to be known for, is it?”

Her presence — soft, bright, undeniably hers — filled the entire room in a way the candles and the champagne never could. He brushed a hand along her back, fingers tracing the subtle lines of tension he knew too well.

Hearing her call the suite an ad for inner peace made him huff a breath of laughter against her hair.

“That was the idea,” he said, his tone gentle. “You’ve had enough chaos for ten lifetimes. Thought you deserved a night where the loudest thing in the room was your heartbeat.”

She touched his jaw, and he leaned into it without thinking — subtle, instinctive, his eyes lowering for just a moment as if the warmth of her hand steadied something in him that had been restless all day.

When she teased about dangerous precedents, his smile turned slow and distinctly male.

“Dangerous,” he echoed, voice dipping, “is sending me that smile and expecting me to behave.”

Her arms around his neck pulled him closer, and he went easily, willingly, settling a hand at the small of her back as his thumb grazed the bare skin beneath the hem of her top.

“Tonight is yours,” he repeated softly, his forehead brushing hers. “I’m just here to make sure you remember what quiet feels like.”

But when she poked his chest — that playful little jab — his expression shifted into something warmer, deeper. A flicker in his eyes she’d seen before, but never quite like this.

“Part of the itinerary, am I?” he asked, voice rich with fond amusement.

Her grin was wicked and soft all at once, and he shook his head, the tiniest laugh slipping out as he tugged her closer by the waist.

“Well,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips hovered near her cheek, “good thing I’ve cleared my schedule.”

His mouth brushed her skin — barely, beautifully — before he pulled back just enough to look at her again. His thumb brushed her jaw, slow and reverent.

“I’m yours for the night,” he said quietly. “Tell me where you want to start.”

Her grin was instant — bright, wicked, and warm enough to light the whole suite by itself.
It was the kind of smile she only ever gave him, the kind that said I’m safe here. I’m happy here. I’m going to make this fun for both of us.

“Tell you where I want to start?” she echoed, looping her fingers into the front of his shirt and tugging him down just a little.
Not enough to kiss him.
Just enough to make him feel her breath skim his skin.

“Let’s just say I’ve been imagining this all week,” she murmured, eyes glittering.

He laughed — a real one, soft and unguarded — and the sound vibrated through her like a chord she’d been waiting months to hear.

“But,” she went on, raising a finger between them like she was making a very official announcement, “because I’m feeling generous and slightly chaotic tonight—”

He snorted under his breath.
She kissed the corner of his mouth for that.
A quick, sweet press that landed like a spark and left him blinking.

“—I’m going to let you choose the first move.”

She stepped back half a pace, enough to sweep her arm dramatically toward the suite like she was Vanna White unveiling luxury.

“Door one,” she said, tapping the champagne bucket with her toe, “bubbles and chocolate. Excellent for recovery, celebration, and questionable flirting.”

She pointed toward the wide, turned-down bed, sheets soft and waiting.

“Door two: we kiss until our brains short-circuit and I forget how sentences work. Which, for the record, is already happening.”

Then she turned toward the bathroom — the candles still unlit, the bath oils and soft towels lined up like an invitation.

“And door three…”
Her smile tipped slow, sweet, a little dangerous.
“…the entire spa situation. High potential for trouble. Zero regrets guaranteed.”

She wiggled her brows, pure mischief.

“I’m not saying it’s my top choice, but…”
She leaned close, brushing her lips near his jaw — not touching, just enough to make him inhale sharply.
“…I’m also not not saying that.”

She pulled back enough to see the look on his face — half undone, half amused, fully hers for the night.

“So,” she said, settling her hands back on his chest, her voice rich with affection and tease,
“which door is our grand staycation kickoff?”

A beat.

Her smile softened — bright, conspiratorial, glowing.

“Choose wisely,” she murmured, eyes dancing up at him. “The night’s ready for a little adventure.”

Avan went still — the good kind of still — the kind a man fell into when he realised he was completely, delightfully outmatched.

Her grin, her voice, the way she mapped the suite like a game he suddenly desperately wanted to win… it hit him square in the chest.
And then she leaned in, breath brushing his jaw, lips hovering like a promise he wasn’t sure he deserved —

Yeah. He was gone.

A slow smile unfurled across his face, warm and devastating, the kind that came out only when he stopped guarding himself.

“Well,” he said softly, voice slipping into that unhurried English drawl she always pulled out of him, “you do know how to make a man feel spoilt for choice.”

Her laugh puffed against his collarbone and he dipped his head slightly, letting his nose brush the edge of her hairline — subtle, intimate.

He took her hand from his chest, threading their fingers together, thumb brushing the delicate ridge of her knuckles.
Then he stepped forward, closing the tiny gap she’d left, letting her body meet his — calm, solid, steady.

“Door one is tempting,” he admitted, eyes skimming her face with a warmth that made her pulse jump. “Champagne. Chocolate. You stealing all the strawberries, denying it, then blaming me for eating the last one…”

His smile crooked a little.
“Charming, but predictable.”

He slid his free hand to her waist, fingers slow, deliberate, the kind of touch that asked permission even while she leaned into it.

“Door two…” His gaze dropped to her mouth — not lustful, but reverent. “Dangerous,” he murmured. “You kiss me once and I forget my own name, never mind strategies.”

Her breath hitched. He absolutely noticed.

And then—

He turned his head toward the bathroom, toward the glowing line of candles waiting to be lit, the bath oils he’d arranged with embarrassing precision.

“Door three,” he said, voice deepening with something warmer, sweeter. “Now that is chaos of the finest variety.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing the top of her cheek — barely there, but enough to send heat skittering across her skin.

“You in my shirt,” he whispered, “steam on your skin, candles flickering…”
A soft, nearly-silent laugh.
“God help me, love, I might not survive that one.”

She grinned — wicked and victorious — but he wasn’t finished.

He rested his forehead against hers, his voice gentling into something honest.
Something soft.

“But if you really want to know what I choose?”

He slid his hand from her waist up her spine, drawing her closer — slow, careful, like she was something he’d waited too long to touch again.

“I choose the door where you don’t have to rush,” he said, breath warm against her lips. “The one where you get to land… not perform.”

His thumb traced her lower lip — feather-light, lingering.

“So.”

A beat.
A breath.
A smile that could undo someone.

“Door three,” he said quietly. “The spa. Let me run that bath for you. Let me make the candles look the way you deserve. And while you sink into something soft—”

His mouth brushed her cheek again, lower this time.

“—I’ll open the champagne and come join you when you’re ready.”

Then, pulling back just enough for her to see the spark in his eyes:

“And later…”
His smile deepened — warm, teasing, utterly sincere.
“We can get lost in doors one and two.”

He kissed her temple — slow, tender, intentional.

“Sound like an adventure worth taking?”

She tilted her head like she was genuinely considering it — as if this were a polite proposal and not one of the most disarming invitations she’d ever been handed.

“I suppose,” she said slowly, her smile blooming like something wicked and warm, “I could let you pamper me for the evening…”

Then she leaned in, brushed her mouth near his jaw with a feather-light grin, and whispered, “But only if I get to pamper you back later.”

Her words were teasing, but the meaning curled beneath them like steam: You deserve that. Not just tonight. Always.

Because he had been patient. And careful. And kind.
Through all of it.
Even when she’d had to smile for headlines and fake-laugh in borrowed designer while holding Devon’s hand for the camera.

Avan had waited without pushing. Steadied her without conditions.
He never made her choose.

She stepped back, and without needing to be asked, he moved to the bathroom. She heard the quiet flick of a candle lighting. Then another. Then the soft rush of water.

When she rounded the corner, he was waiting with the robe and slippers in hand — like it was nothing. Like he’d always known she’d need the softest version of this night.

Imogen met his gaze as she took them, her fingers brushing his, but she didn’t say thank you.

Not yet.

Instead, she slipped into the other room, letting the weight of the moment trail behind her like perfume.

It didn’t take long to undress — her fingers moving slowly, reverently, as she peeled away the last traces of the day. Fabric kissed the floor, cool air traced bare skin, and the robe he’d chosen felt like being exhaled into.

She tied the sash in a loose knot. Slipped her feet into the waiting slippers. And for a second… she just stood there.

Still.
Warm.
Herself.

Then she spotted the bag.

Champagne. Strawberries. Chocolate.

She smiled — not a grin this time, but something softer. Something a little in love.

She picked it up and padded toward the bathroom, the candlelight casting golden halos through the cracked door. The scent of honey and warm water filled her lungs as she entered, and without a word, she set the bag gently on the counter beside the sink.

Then she turned to him, eyes bright beneath the soft glow, and said with a cheeky smile that barely hid the warmth behind it—

“Okay, but just so we’re clear… if I ascend into some kind of goddess state from all this effort, that’s your fault.”

She leaned in, brushing her shoulder against his as she peeked at the rising water, voice a murmur just for him.

“And if I melt into the tub and never reappear, just tell the tabloids I went out happy.”

Then she moved to stand beside him while the tub continued to fill.

There wasn’t a rush.

Just this.
Just them.

And the kind of quiet that finally felt like peace.

Avan looked at her like she’d just walked in wrapped in starlight.

Not because of the robe — though it looked indecently soft on her — and not because of the candlelight making her skin glow like warm silk.
But because of the way she said it.

If I ascend into some kind of goddess state… that’s your fault.

His mouth curved, slow and devastating, the kind of smile that started deep in the chest before it reached his lips.
He tilted his head, watching her with that soft, smoldering intensity that always made her pulse quicken.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” he murmured, voice dipping into that velvet London warmth. “A goddess state? I’d say that’s been your default since you walked in.”

She bumped her shoulder into him; he barely swayed — just leaned back into her with quiet certainty.

When she joked about melting into the tub and needing a good PR cover story, he let out a low, amused hum, turning slightly so he could look at her properly, candlelight flickering in the dark of his eyes.

“Imogen,” he said, all mock-gravity and hidden affection, “if you disappear into this bath, you have my word — I will give the press the most dignified obituary imaginable.”

A pause.
Then, softly teasing:

‘Beloved pop sensation transcends mortal coil after experiencing unparalleled tranquility,’” he recited in that rich, low voice, “last seen wearing a robe far too luxurious for the common eye.”

She laughed — that soft, golden sound he always chased — and he felt it hit him somewhere under the ribs.

The tub filled behind him, water steaming gently, the scent of bergamot curling through the warm air. Candles flickered along the marble, each flame steady and intentional, like they’d been waiting just for her.

He reached past her without touching — a polite brush of presence — and turned off the tap. The water stilled into a glossy pool, perfect and calm.

Then he turned back to her, slowly, leaning his hip against the marble as he took her in.
Not hungrily.
Not possessively.
Just… reverently.

“As for ascending,” he continued, softer now, thumb brushing the edge of a candleholder, “I’ll take full responsibility if it happens. Seems only fair, considering the effort.”

He glanced down at the robe she wore — his choice, his hands, his moment — and something warm flickered across his face.

“You look…”
He stopped, breath catching in his throat for a second he didn’t bother to hide.
“…unbelievably at peace.”

He stepped closer then, close enough that the air between them warmed, but not so close that he overwhelmed her. His voice gentled into that low, intimate murmur she’d memorised.

“This is your night,” he said. “Every second of it. You just tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen.”

Her cheeks flushed — not from embarrassment, but from how seen she felt in that moment.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added with that crooked, irresistible smile:

“And if you do reach goddess status…”
He brushed an invisible lint speck off her sleeve, soft as a kiss.
“…I expect the proper worship rights.”

He lifted his chin toward the tub, offering his hand for balance without insisting she take it.

“Go on, love,” he said, eyes warm enough to melt steel. “Your throne awaits.”

Her throne awaits.

God, he really said that.

And the worst part?

It worked.

Something buzzed low in her stomach — not nerves, not quite — but that fizzy sort of feeling that only showed up when he looked at her like that. When he said things like your night, like I’ll make it happen, like he’d torn pages from her private daydreams and recited them in candlelight.

She didn’t blush. Not really.
But she did feel the corners of her smile twist into something wicked and warm, something that curled around the edge of her heart and purred.

He made it far too easy to fall for moments like this.

“Well,” she said lightly, reaching up to undo the robe’s tie with one slow tug, “it would be rude not to accept such a royal invitation.”

The knot gave way with a whisper, fabric slipping open just enough to tease. She raised an eyebrow, daring, playful, then let the robe fall from her shoulders — not rushed, not showy. Just… elegant chaos.

Like she’d practiced in front of her hotel mirror before and now had an audience worth the rehearsal.

The robe slid to the floor in a hush of silk. She stepped out of it slowly, unapologetically, feeling the flicker of candlelight chase every curve, every bare inch of skin like a secret.

She didn’t break eye contact once.

Then, with the kind of confidence that only came when a girl felt safe and worshipped, she padded over to the tub and climbed in — graceful but deliberate, like each movement was its own kind of answer.

Warm water lapped at her thighs, then her waist, rising up like it couldn’t wait to have her. She let out a soft, sighing hum — half indulgence, half confession — and tilted her head back just slightly.

Steam curled at her collarbone. Candlelight kissed her skin.

And he — the man who’d orchestrated it all, who looked like he wanted to commit every inch of this moment to memory — still stood there like she was the whole damn constellation.

“Alright,” she murmured, settling in, eyes glinting over the edge of the tub. “You’ve officially outdone yourself.”

She dipped one leg beneath the water, then the other, toes brushing the edge opposite her. She folded her arms loosely on the rim of the tub and rested her chin there, letting her voice drop into something low and silk-wrapped.

“Now,” she added, a smile tugging at her lips, “be a darling and open the champagne before I decide you’re too good at this and start getting suspicious.”

A beat.

Then, softer — but no less certain:

“…And Avan?”

She let the name roll off her tongue like a secret she liked keeping.

“This is already the best night I’ve had in months.”

She didn’t say because of you.
She didn’t have to.
It was written in every inch of steam, sparkle, and silence between them.