As Sinister's fury consumed the room, I barely recognised him. His eyes burnt with an uncontrollable rage, and for a moment, I swore I saw something unhinged lurking beneath the surface—a darkness I had never dared to touch.
Liam lay motionless on the floor, his face battered and bloodied. My breath hitched in my throat. I should have stopped it sooner. I should have done something. But the way Sinister had looked at me, the raw anger in his expression—it paralysed me.
He turned toward me now, his heavy breaths filling the silence between us. My body stiffened as he closed the distance, and I wasn't sure whether I should run or let him take me. His hands gripped my waist, his touch both possessive and desperate.
"If I told you," he whispered, voice hoarse, "that what I truly want is different from what I claimed... Would it change your answer?"
My heart pounded against my ribs. I could feel his breath on my skin, his presence overwhelming and intoxicating. He was waiting—waiting for me to tell him to go, to push him away. But I couldn't. Not when his emotions bled into mine, not when his touch sent shivers down my spine.
Instead, I did the only thing I knew would calm him. I lifted my trembling hands to his face and kissed him.
The moment our lips met, I felt his body stiffen, his grip tightening as if I were the only thing tethering him to reality. The kiss wasn't soft—it was desperate, bruising, laced with anger, pain, and something dangerously close to love. My fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, and for a second, I forgot everything. Liam, the blood, the chaos—it all faded.
Then, just as suddenly, Sinister pulled away. His gaze flickered between mine, conflicted. He lingered for a moment, his fingers brushing against my jawline as if memorising me, before his expression hardened. Without another word, he turned and walked out the door, leaving me standing there, breathless and trembling.
The silence that followed was deafening.
My eyes darted to Liam's body. A lump formed in my throat. His chest was rising—barely, but he was alive. A surge of panic crashed over me, and with shaking hands, I grabbed my phone and dialled 911. My voice wavered as I requested an ambulance.
I couldn't stay like this—standing there, bare, exposed, my skin still tingling from Sinister's touch while Liam lay unconscious on the floor. I stumbled toward my closet, my fingers fumbling for clothes as the weight of what had just happened settled in.
Guilt gnawed at me. Had I done this? Had my choices, my weakness, led to this moment?
Liam had been beaten because of me. Sinister had unravelled because of me.
As the distant wail of sirens filled the night air, I called Liam's secretary. I kept my voice calm and detached, but my hands trembled as I relayed what happened—though I left out the details that would make it harder to forget. His secretary didn't hesitate.
"Stay out of it," he said.
And I would.
As the paramedics carried Liam away, I stood in the aftermath of the storm, my hands stained with a mess I wasn't sure I could ever clean up. But that didn't stop me from trying.
So I scrubbed. And I scrubbed.
Because maybe if I erased every trace of Sinister's fury, of Liam's pain, of my own complicity—maybe I could pretend none of it ever happened.
Maybe I could pretend that, for a fleeting moment, I hadn't wanted Sinister to stay.
The morning light crept through the half-drawn curtains, brushing against the untouched sheets on the other side of my bed. My body ached with the weight of restless sleep, but no amount of rest could dull the unease lingering in my chest.
Days had passed since that night—since Sinister's rage. Since Liam's body lay crumpled on my floor. The echoes of it still lived within these walls. I'd scrubbed away the blood and the dark stains that once smeared the wooden planks, but no matter how much I cleaned, the memory remained.
Yet, it wasn't the blood that haunted me the most. It was the silence.
No calls. No texts. Not even the hint of a message. From Sinister or Liam.
I hated how easily Sinister slipped back into the shadows. I hated how Liam, the boy who was once a constant presence, had simply vanished. I stared at my phone, the screen dark and motionless. Not a single notification. Just my own reflection staring back, looking as hollow as I felt.
Should I text him? Should I ask if he's okay?
The thought gnawed at me. But just as quickly, I could see Sinister's face—the storm in his eyes. His warning. The violence that surged through him without restraint.
Would he know if I contacted Liam? Would it set him off again?
No. I couldn't risk it. Not yet.
Instead, I opened my messages, scrolling until I found a safer option. Liam's secretary. My fingers hesitated before typing.
Hi. I was just wondering how Liam is doing. Please let me know.
I reread the message, swallowing the tightness in my throat. It was innocent enough. Just a concerned friend reaching out. I hit send.
Hours passed. Then an entire day. My phone remained silent.
I tried again, this time calling.
One ring. Two rings. Then four. Nothing. No answer. Just the suffocating weight of uncertainty. I tossed the phone aside, frustration simmering beneath my skin. Why wasn't anyone telling me anything?
The unease followed me to campus. College was supposed to be a distraction—a return to normalcy. But even there, the silence persisted.
I spotted familiar faces in the crowded halls. Liam had once been a part of these passing conversations, flashing his charming grin and effortlessly drawing people in. But now, it was as if the very air had shifted.
"Hey," I forced a smile at one of my classmates, trying to keep the edge from my voice. "Have you seen Liam? I haven't heard from him since the last project."
Her expression faltered. "Liam?" She blinked, as if struggling to recall. "I… I don't think I know who you're talking about."
My stomach twisted. "Liam Walton. He was literally during the presentation. Tall, dark hair, always cracking jokes."
"I don't think I've met him."
She walked away, but her reaction stayed with me. Something wasn't right.
I tried again. More people. More questions. Yet the answers remained the same.
"I'm not sure who you mean." "Maybe you're thinking of someone else." "No one by that name comes to mind."
It was like Liam had never existed.
Even the professors, people I knew Liam had worked with on projects, avoided the question. One in particular, Professor Allen, practically shut me down the moment I asked.
"Miss Smith, this isn't relevant to today's discussion. Let's stay focused."
But it was relevant. It was driving me insane.
And then, just when I thought the day couldn't grow more unbearable, I saw him.
Sinister.
He walked across the courtyard, effortlessly commanding the space around him. He wore that same cold, indifferent expression—the one that once drew me in like a moth to a flame. But this time, it was different.
He didn't glance my way. Not once.
No scowl. No smug remarks. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement. I stood frozen, my heart pounding against my ribs. My hands clenched at my sides, waiting—begging—for him to break the unbearable silence.
But he didn't.
Sinister passed by me like I wasn't even there. Like I was nothing.
I told myself it didn't matter. I told myself I didn't care. But the tightness in my chest told a different story.
Maybe he's trying to punish me. Maybe this is part of his game.
But if it was, why did it feel like I was the only one still playing?
By the time I returned home, the weight of the day had crushed me. The dim apartment welcomed me with the same empty stillness. My phone lay untouched on the nightstand. I held my breath as I checked it once more, desperately hoping for something—anything.
But there was nothing.
No message from Sinister. No explanation. Not even a fleeting insult.
He didn't reach out.
He didn't care.
And that, more than anything, broke me