Tag: Dark Romance

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Born minutes apart, raised in the same house, yet Delphina Moore was always the outsider. The unwanted twin.

So when she tries to leave, her family makes sure she never gets the chance.

They sell her to Evander Thorne.

A man whispered about in fear. A man no one escapes.

Delphina is supposed to disappear like the others.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she survives… and forms a bond that was never meant to exist.

A bond that ties her to Evander in ways neither of them can control.

And worse, it awakens a secret buried long before she was born.

A secret powerful enough to destroy everything or remake it entirely.

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Sold to the Devil’s Empire novel Chapter 1

Delphina’s POV
In our house, innocence meant nothing, only who cried first. And Ceilia always cried first.
“Mummy!”
Ceilia’s scream tore through the house.
I froze.
She stood in the centre of the bedroom, clutching her finger as blood welled from a neat crescent bite. Her bite. She had bitten her finger right in front of me.
“I’m bleeding!” she wailed.
My feet would not move. There was nowhere to hide anyway. The wardrobe door had no lock. The bathroom lock never worked. The window had iron bars.
I heard footsteps approaching, and my heart raced in my chest.
“What happened?”
Mum appeared at the doorway, holding a spatula still in her hand from the kitchen. Oil glistened on its surface. Her eyes moved from Ceilia’s tears to the blood, then slowly to me.
“Delphina hurt my finger,” Ceilia sobbed.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Mum took Ceilia’s hand gently, inspecting it as if she were examining a crystal in her shop. She cooed softly. Wiped the blood with the edge of her apron.
Then her arm swung. The spatula struck my shoulder before I could brace myself.
“How dare you hurt her?” she shouted.
“Mummy, I didn’t…”
The second blow landed across my arm. The third on my back.
The spatula made a flat, cracking sound each time it connected with my skin. She was holding my hand and repeatedly hitting me with the spatula.
Ceilia’s crying softened.
“Mummy, please,” I begged, while my attempt to free myself proved futile. “I didn’t do it.”
Like always, my voice did not exist.
She beat me until her breathing grew heavy and satisfied. When she finally stopped, I was shaking. My skin marked with red patches, and injuries resulting from the beating, but she didn’t care.
She had never cared.
“As your punishment, you will stay locked in the basement,” she said, seizing my wrist.
I was only six years old.
I stumbled as she dragged me down the narrow staircase. The basement door creaked open. Damp air rose to meet us.
While she shoved me inside, I turned.
Ceilia stood at the top of the stairs.
She stuck her tongue out teasingly.
The door slammed, and the lock clicked before I could get to it.
I pressed my back against the wood and slid down slowly. My arms burned. My legs stung. My skin would become redder by nightfall.
This was how it had always been.
Ceilia is my twin.
We shared a birthday, not a face. She had black hair and warm brown eyes that made people smile. I had brunette hair and green eyes that made people whisper.
From the day we were born, she had been the miracle, and I, the mistake.
I learned very early that one word was forbidden in Ceilia’s world. No.
I had a storybook. Kevin from next door had given it to me. He said it was his favourite and that I was clever enough to understand it.
Ceilia wanted it.
“No,” I said.
And that was it. She bit her own finger.
And here I was, beaten and locked up in a basement.
Father never questioned anything. He worked, ate, and slept. Mum owned a boutique where rich women shopped for imported silk and perfume.
We were not poor. Yet I delivered newspapers before dawn.
Ceilia went to school in polished shoes and pleated skirts. I scrubbed floors that were already clean. In the afternoons, I cooked, washed, ironed, and dusted until every surface shone like glass.
Yes, I started cooking for the family at the age of six.
The only good thing they did for me was buy the groceries and provide me with cooking books. That started when they discovered I had learned to read and write on my own.
“If there is dust, you do not eat,” Mum would say.
We shared a room once. Ceilia slept on the queen-sized bed. I slept on the floor.
“It will be easier when Ceilia needs something,” Mum had explained.
By the time I was thirteen years old, even that small space was taken from me. The servants who cleaned the compound were dismissed one by one. I replaced them all.
“You are old enough to earn your keep.”
I moved into the kitchen storage room. It smelled of flour and detergent.
“It will help you wake early,” Mum said.
It helped me understand what I was.
Staff.
Kevin was the only soft thing in my world.
Over weekends, he would teach me what he learned at school. Algebra frightened me. History fascinated me. He said I asked questions like someone meant for more.
When I turned fifteen, he told me his father had now taken over from his grandfather to manage the Wilson’s Group. They were moving.
“Delphina, take this.” He pressed a cheap plastic ring into my palm. Blue stone. Too large for my finger.
“I’ll come back for you when I’m older,” he said with a grin he believed in.
I hugged him tightly.
That was the last time I saw him.
I slid a thread through the ring and wore it around my neck for years. I wore high-neck tops, so it was easy to hide it from my family.
Hope is a stubborn thing, but it was the only thing that kept me going.
One day, I will be free.
I always encouraged myself with those words.
It will not be like this forever.
By twenty, hope had turned into something sharper.
Enough.
I had counted the days quietly. Planned silently. I kept my thoughts in a diary hidden under the kitchen shelf behind the sacks of rice.
I did not know where I would go, but I knew I would leave.
That morning, I woke at four as usual.
“After today, I’ll be free,” I whispered as I folded my thin blanket.
I cleaned with a lightness I had never felt before. Washed dishes carefully. Polished the bannister. Prepared breakfast.
At seven, they would leave.
Father to work, mum to her shop, and Ceilia to her friends, who never visited our house because she did not like them seeing me.
I would pack my small bag, walk out that door, never to return.
I cleared the breakfast table, humming under my breath.
“Delphina.”
My stomach tightened.
I hurried to the sitting room.
If she called twice, I would be struck.
“Mummy, you called?” I bowed slightly.
Father sat stiffly on the sofa. Ceilia lounged beside him, scrolling through her phone.
“Delphina, you are twenty,” Father said.
I blinked. They remembered.
“We have decided it is time you settle down.”
The room tilted slightly.
“Settle down?” I repeated.
“Do not interrupt,” Mum snapped.
“Sorry.”
“Mr Evander Thorne has made us an offer,” Father continued. “In return, he requires something to seal the arrangement.”
Understanding crawled over me slowly.
“You offered me,” I said quietly.
“I said be silent!” Mum’s hand struck my cheek.
The sting blossomed.
“No,” I said, and the word surprised even me. “I will not be silent. What have I done to deserve this? Am I even your child?”
Another slap.
“You should be grateful,” Mum hissed. “A man of his stature is willing to take you.”
“Then let Ceilia marry him,” I said. “If he is so wealthy, surely that suits her.”
The third slap sent me sideways.
“How dare you compare yourself to Ceilia?” Mum barked. “Our angel already has a proposal from someone far superior.”
Ceilia smirked.
Evander Thorne.
Everyone knew the rumours. Ruthless. Cold. Untouchable. Hates women. A man whose name alone could make businessmen tremble.
And I was to be the price of some bargain.
I swallowed.
Fine.
They would not find me here when they returned tonight.
A knock sounded at the door.
“See who it is,” Mum ordered.
I stepped out of the balcony corridor and descended to the front entrance.
Two men in black suits stood outside. Their expressions were blank, professional.
“Yes?”
“Is Mr Moore home?” one asked.
“Yes.”
Heavy footsteps approached behind me.
“She is ready,” Father said.
My blood turned to ice.
“She?”
Before I could move, the men seized my arms.
“No!” I struggled, but their grip tightened.
“Mummy, Daddy, please!” The words tore out of me, though I knew better than to expect mercy.
Ceilia watched from the staircase, behind mum and dad.
Holding a book.
She deliberately held it up so I could see.
My diary.
The ribbon I used as a bookmark dangled from her fingers. And on her pinkie was the plastic ring Kevin gave me. My hand flew to my neck. It was gone.
She knew of my plans. And she planned her own.
She smiled, looking pleased.
They dragged me outside. A sleek black car waited at the gate. One of the men opened the back door and shoved me inside.
I clawed at the handle.
Something cold pressed against my nose.
A sharp chemical scent filled my lungs, and the world blurred.
My last thought before darkness swallowed me was simple and devastating.
I had tried to run.
But freedom had never been mine to claim.

Sold to the Devil’s Empire novel Chapter 2

Evander’s POV
“Sir, it is the final day. Mr Moore has still not paid what he owes.”
Marcus’s voice carried across the balcony, steady as ever.
I did not turn immediately. Below me, Draevik City pulsed in disciplined silence. Glass towers reflected the late afternoon sun. Traffic moved like blood through veins I owned.
I tightened my grip on the railing until the cold metal bit into my palm.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“In the basement.”
“Good.”
I walked past Marcus without another word. He fell into step behind me.
The lift descended smoothly. Stainless steel. No mirrors. I disliked reflections.
The basement air was colder. Thicker. Concrete and iron. A single overhead light cast sharp shadows against the walls.
A chair was placed at the centre of the room. I sat. My face mask in place.
Seth Moore knelt between two guards. Sweat clung to his thinning hair. His expensive suit was wrinkled now, stained at the collar.
“Seth Moore,” I said quietly, “I despise promise breakers.”
“Mr Thorne, have mercy,” he begged, voice cracking.
“Why should I?”
“Dead men are useless to you,” he stammered.
I leaned forward slightly. “What makes you think I care whether you are dead or alive?”
He swallowed hard. “I will pay. I just need time.”
“You are out of time.”
He began rambling about former positions, future appointments, and companies that might still hire him as CEO. Words spilling like coins from a torn purse.
“That ship has sailed,” I said.
His breathing quickened. Panic sharpened his eyes.
Then he said it.
“I will give you my daughter. She will serve you. Do with her as you please.”
The guards shifted slightly. Marcus did not move.
“Human trafficking,” I said evenly.
“No, no. Not trafficking. Service. She will work for you without pay while I raise the money. When I settle my debt, I will take her back.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
“Cut his finger,” I instructed.
One of my men stepped forward.
“Wait! Please!” Seth cried, fumbling inside his jacket. “Look at her first. Please. Look.”
He held up a photograph with trembling fingers.
I was not interested at first, but something about the image caught my attention.
I raised my hand, and the guard paused.
The image was slightly creased. Taken in poor light. A young woman stood stiffly in what looked like a kitchen doorway.
Her hair was brunette, falling past her shoulders, down to her waist. Her eyes, green, sharp even in print, did not carry the softness of someone loved.
Something was unsettling about the picture. I stared longer than necessary.
She was not smiling, but she was not afraid either.
She looked… resigned.
And that disturbed me more than fear would have, but I still wanted to see this girl. This strange girl with green eyes.
I lowered my hand slowly.
“I accept your offer,” I said.
Relief flooded Seth’s face so quickly it disgusted me.
“Three days,” he pleaded. “Allow me to prepare her.”
“Three days,” I agreed, and stood.
As I walked towards the door, I gave Marcus a brief glance, and he understood.
The first crack of the whip split the air just as I exited. Seth’s scream followed, muffled once the steel door shut behind me.
I believe pain, when properly administered, is educational.
“Sir,” Marcus said once we reached my home office level, “please tell me you are not truly considering this arrangement.”
I removed my cufflinks slowly.
“Are you questioning my judgement?”
“No, my Lord. But she will be the only woman within these walls. Curiosity breeds speculation.”
Women did not enter my space. They never had, and I had my reasons.
“Are you saying security will fail?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then there is no problem.”
He hesitated, which meant he was thinking beyond logistics.
Only Marcus would dare.
“She could expose…” He paused carefully. “Certain truths.”
My gaze sharpened.
“Are you incompetent, Marcus?”
His jaw tightened. “Never.”
“Then ensure she does not become a liability.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
As he turned to leave, I added, “I want everything about her. Every detail. And I want to know why her father offered her so easily.”
“Yes, sir.”
When the door closed, silence settled.
My phone vibrated against the desk.
“Father.”
“The meeting is this weekend,” he said without greeting. “No excuses.”
“Very well.”
The line went dead.
The Wilson alliance.
A strategic merger disguised as marriage, to save their empire, which was bleeding quietly. Ours was not.
Marissa Wilson.
A woman I had seen from a distance once and only met once. She was well polished, educated, and impeccable.
She had tried to get close upon meeting me for the first time. I quickly stepped back, keeping a distance between us, while keeping my father in the middle.
Her perfume had been too sweet.
Women unsettled me.
Aside from my personal reason, at five years old, I learned that affection could be performance. My mother’s smile was reserved for rooms where my father stood watching. In private, her gaze was colder than any basement I owned.
At six, I learned worse watching the woman I called my mother.
That memory remained locked.
Marcus was the only living person aware of my reaction towards women.
I did not allow women close to me. I did not touch or entertain them. The idea of physical intimacy did not stir hunger in me.
It stirred caution.
In this world, control had been my solution.
Marcus returned within the hour and placed a file on my desk.
“Preliminary report on Delphina Moore. Also, the President has requested an audience.”
So, that is her name. I thought.
“I am not receiving him today.”
“Yes, sir.”
He left.
I opened the file.
Delphina Moore.
Twenty years old.
No formal education.
Paper delivery.
Domestic labour within her own household.
No criminal record.
No social footprint.
Invisible.
Her photograph, paper clipped to the front, was clearer than the one her father had shown me.
In this image, she was younger. Perhaps eighteen. Standing slightly behind another girl, identical in age but not in physical appearance.
Twin.
The resemblance was biological, not emotional.
One shone.
One endured.
“Interesting,” I murmured.
Seth Moore had not offered his daughter.
He had offered the spare.
That detail lodged somewhere uncomfortable.
In the Republic of Vaelorin, power had layers.
Averelle City held the politicians. Marble buildings. Press conferences. Diplomacy rehearsed for cameras.
The President signed documents.
I decided which ones reached his desk.
Draevik City held the money. Stock exchanges. Corporate towers. Conglomerates stitched together by invisible agreements.
They all answered to someone.
Me.
Velmire Port City held what was never spoken aloud. Private docks. Restricted zones. Shipping manifests that changed before customs officers saw them.
Officially, I was a businessman.
Unofficially, I was the spine.
Very few had seen my face.
But they knew my name.
And they feared it.
I closed the file slowly.
Why did her image unsettle me?
It was not an attraction.
I did not experience desire the way other men described it. I had listened to enough conversations in boardrooms and private clubs to understand that.
Men spoke of women like acquisitions.
I did not understand the impulse.
But when I looked at Delphina Moore’s photograph, something shifted.
Not hunger.
Recognition.
She looked like someone who had been managed. Contained. Silenced.
I understood containment.
Three days later, I sent my men.
Marcus stood by my desk that afternoon.
“Sir, are you certain?”
“Is the second floor prepared?”
“Yes.”
The second floor of my private residence was a self-contained apartment. Two bedrooms. Kitchen. Security access limited.
No woman had ever occupied that space.
“She will remain there,” I instructed. “She may access the third floor only under supervision. Cleaning. Cooking. Nothing more.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Marcus?”
He paused.
“She does not wander.”
“Understood.”
By mid-afternoon, I had completed two virtual negotiations and rejected a government proposal.
“Sir,” Marcus announced, “she has arrived. She is sedated.”
I looked up.
A strange tension settled beneath my ribs.
Good, I told myself.
I stood.
Marcus hesitated, as though considering speaking. He did not.
We walked down the corridor.
The second-floor door unlocked with a soft electronic click.
The apartment was quiet.
I stepped into the bedroom.
She lay on the bed, unconscious. Brunette hair spread across the pillow like silk brushed with warm earth tones. Her hands rested loosely at her sides.
She looked smaller than in the photograph.
Less resigned.
More fragile.
The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air from the sedative.
I stood at the foot of the bed.
For a fraction of a second, warmth flickered beneath my skin, but gone before I could identify it.
This was new.
I had stood in rooms where governments negotiated their survival. I had ordered sanctions, dismantled companies, broken men.
My heart had never altered its rhythm.
Now it did.
I moved closer despite myself.
Her eyelashes trembled slightly in sleep. There was a faint bruise near her cheekbone.
My jaw tightened.
I wanted to reach out.
The thought alone startled me.
I do not touch.
I do not reach.
Experience had taught me that proximity often came with consequences.
My hand lifted a fraction before I forced it back to my side.
This is illogical, I told myself.
She is leverage. Nothing more.
Yet something about her stillness made the room feel unfamiliar.
Uncontrolled.
“Sir?” Marcus’s voice came from behind me, careful.
I stepped back immediately.
“Let’s go,” I said.
I left the room as though it were the source of heat and I had stood too close to the flame.
Once the door shut, I exhaled slowly.
For the first time in years, I felt something dangerously close to fear.
Not of her.
Of myself.
I had faced nations without flinching.
Yet a sleeping girl had unsettled the architecture of my control.

Sold to the Devil’s Empire novel Chapter 3

Delphina’s POV
I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was a ceiling I did not recognise.
For a moment, I did not move. I simply stared. Pale. Smooth. No crack. Nothing like the storage room I spent countless nights in. The fruit fragrance of the room hit me next. My heart jolted, and I pushed myself upright too quickly.
My body quickly recognised the softness of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath me. My balance faltered, and I scrambled backwards, tangling in unfamiliar sheets before tumbling off the bed entirely, and ending up on the floor.
The floor was smooth hardwood, cool against my palms.
I looked up.
The room was clean.
Very clean.
Cream walls. White sheets pulled tight and unwrinkled. My nose picked up the fruit scent, lemon and coconut, it lingered in the air, subtle but deliberate. Nothing like the damp storage room I had slept in for years, where mildew clung to the corners, and the only scent was dust and old wood.
My breathing grew shallow.
Is this Evander Thorne’s house? Or did someone rescue me?
I stood to my feet and took a good look at the room. The bed stood neatly at the centre, dressed in white sheets, so crisp it almost glowed in the filtered daylight. A wardrobe stood against the far wall. Closed. Polished.
There were no bars on the windows, only a beautiful white and grey drape decorated them.
No visible restraints.
This did not look like a prison.
If it was, this was one hell of a comfortable prison.
The door opened before I could steady myself.
I froze.
An average-height man stepped inside. Dark hair, precisely groomed. Suit pressed without a crease. He carried himself with quiet authority, not hurried, not uncertain.
Is that him?
I stayed half-crouched beside the bed, painfully aware of the state of my clothes. Faded. Worn. I looked like dirt that had been dropped into a showroom.
“Delphina Moore,” he said evenly. “Good. You are awake.”
His voice was controlled, measured.
“Please,” I blurted, scrambling to my feet. “I can’t stay here. Please let me go.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” He placed a file neatly on the bed. “I am here to assign your duties.”
Duties. He can’t be Evander Thorne.
“For your sake, I hope you can read,” he added calmly. “Ensure you understand everything on the paper. Your work begins at six a.m. tomorrow.”
“My work?” I echoed.
But he was already turning away.
The door shut with a soft mechanical click.
Locked.
The quiet that followed was heavier than the words.
The rumours about Evander Thorne echoed in my mind.
Ruthless. Untouchable. Dangerous. Hates women. A man who could erase a life without consequence.
I approached the bed slowly and picked up the file.
Household duties.
Every task listed with military precision. Start time. Finish time. Allocated minutes for each task, and each room meant to be cleaned.
Six a.m. to six p.m each day.
“I was brought here to be a housekeeper?” I whispered.
The word felt too simple for the transaction that had delivered me here.
I moved to the wardrobe and opened it.
Uniforms.
Black dresses with white collars. Crisp aprons. Identical. Lined up in silent expectation.
On the other side were five sets of pyjamas.
All my size.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
He knew.
My father had not spoken blindly. This had been arranged.
I shut the wardrobe and pushed open the inner door.
A bathroom.
My own.
White tiles. A glass shower. Clean towels folded with symmetry.
At home, I bathed outside behind the kitchen window, beneath the standing pipe. My parents had their bedroom with a bathroom. Ceilia had hers.
I was not permitted in the bathrooms designated for families.
And yet here, in the house of the most feared man in the country, I had a private one.
Mr Thorne might be a terrible man, but he provided well for his servants.
Servant.
The word settled in my chest.
I returned to the bedroom just as the door unlocked again.
The same man stepped inside.
“I require your thumbprint on several documents,” he said, approaching.
I instinctively stepped back.
“Delphina,” he said quietly, and there was warning beneath the calm. “Do not make this difficult.”
He took my right hand firmly but not roughly, pressed my thumb onto an ink pad, then opened the file.
Oath of Secrecy.
The bold heading burned into my vision before he flipped to the final page.
He reached for my hand again. I pulled it back.
“Delphina.”
My name in his mouth felt less like a call and more like a command. He took my thumb and pressed it onto the signature line.
“There,” he said.
“What is this?” I asked, my voice thinner than I intended.
“It is an Oath of Secrecy,” he replied. “This is Lord Evander Thorne’s empire. Nothing you see or hear leaves this building.”
He held my gaze.
“If information becomes public, the agreed punishment will be carried out.”
He paused.
“Death.”
The word did not rise in volume. It did not need to. Cold spread through my limbs. My breath shortened.
“I, I don’t know how to clean properly,” I managed, looking at how clean the environment was and recalling how my mum constantly tells me I suck at cleaning. “There must be someone better suited.”
“Your father has already collected payment for your service.”
Payment.
He left before I could speak again.
The door locked.
My knees gave way.
Payment.
Was I sold? Or I am working, and they are collecting the payment?
I pressed my hand against my mouth to stop the sound that threatened to escape.
My diary.
Ceilia was holding it. She told them about my plan to leave.
My father would rather sell me to the country’s most feared man than allow me freedom.
I forced myself upright.
“No. I will get out of here,” I whispered.
I just needed time. Study the environment, and I can plan my escape.
But then another thought struck.
If I leave, he will find me. If he cannot find me, he will find them.
I lowered my lashes in defeat. They may have treated me like an inconvenience, but they were still my family.
I exhaled slowly, steadying myself.
Fine.
I will work. I will learn the terms. I will complete whatever period is required.
And then I will leave properly.
My father has said that this was to seal a deal. The man who just left said I was here to render service. It must be temporary.
The door unlocked again.
Another man entered with a tray and placed it silently on a desk near the window. Only then did I notice the subtle extension of the room, a small dining nook tucked behind heavy curtains.
He was dressed differently. Nothing like the man who had come in earlier.
“Thank you,” I said instinctively.
He did not respond.
The bowl revealed a chicken Caesar salad. Fresh. Crisp. Real food.
I ate without hesitation.
Afterwards, I showered. The hot water stunned my skin. I stood beneath it longer than necessary, letting it wash years of cold baths from memory.
I changed into one of the pyjamas and slid into the bed.
The sheets were impossibly soft and comfortable.
I closed my eyes, and sleep took over.
When the shock of cold water hit my face, I gasped and shot upright. The same man stood over me, holding an empty glass.
“You were to be ready at five fifty,” he said. “It is now six.”
My heart pounded.
“You have five minutes.”
He left.
I wiped water from my face, breathing unevenly.
Comfort had made me careless.
I dressed quickly, pulling on the uniform. The black dress fit perfectly. The white collar lay sharp against my throat. I tied my hair into a tight ponytail and approached the door.
Locked.
The moment I stepped back, it clicked open.
He was waiting.
“Follow me,” he said.
We walked through a corridor lined with neutral walls. We entered a lift and ascended.
The third floor opened into something that felt less like a home and more like a luxury hotel lobby. Polished floors. Controlled lighting. Everything arranged with intention.
He knocked on the door before opening it.
“Wait.”
He disappeared briefly and returned with cleaning supplies.
Broom. Mop. Cloths. Dusters. Bucket.
“I expect every room to be immaculate. You have thirty minutes.”
He turned to leave, then paused.
“Do not go to the top floor.”
He did not explain, but I nodded.
I began cleaning.
The rooms were expansive, far larger than necessary. Bedrooms with private sitting areas. Bathrooms bigger than entire sections of my former home. I was able to enter all rooms except one. It was locked.
Half an hour was not enough. I worked quickly, pulse steadying as routine replaced panic.
Then I saw the staircase.
It curved upwards discreetly, almost hidden.
The top floor.
He had said not to go there.
I hesitated only a second before climbing out of curiosity.
The air felt cooler.
I reached the landing and stopped.
Through a glass partition, I saw a man.
Shirtless.
The waistband of dark training trousers rested low against his narrow waist. His skin was pale but defined, lean muscle etched with quiet precision.
He held a weighted bar attached to a chain, pulling it down towards his waist in controlled repetition.
The muscles in his back tightened and released with each measured pull.
There was nothing frantic in the movement.
No aggression.
No display.
He did not look like a man who needed to prove his strength.
He looked like one who measured it.
My breath caught, not from attraction, but from awareness.
Was that him?
I continued to stare.
This was a man of discipline.
Of calculation.
He paused mid-repetition, head tilting slightly.
As though he sensed something.
“Breaking rules on your first day?”
The voice came from behind me.
I jolted, spinning so quickly my shoulder struck the wall. My hand flew to my chest.
The man from earlier stood on the staircase, watching me.
“Marcus,” he said evenly, as though offering a courtesy. “I suggest you remember that name.”
I swallowed.
“I, I’m sorry.”
When I glanced back through the glass, the room was empty.
He was gone.
And somehow that was worse.

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