The darkness stretched endlessly, swallowing everything in silence.
Amara stood in the center of her childhood home—but it wasn't abandoned.
The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon filled the air, wrapping around her like an embrace. Her mother's voice hummed softly from the kitchen, the sound gentle, familiar.
"Come here, sweetheart."
Her father sat in his armchair, a book in his hands, his glasses slipping down his nose. He glanced up, smiling. Warm. Safe. Home.
For a moment, she forgot.
She forgot that none of this was real.
She forgot what came next.
But then—it started.
The humming faltered.
The warmth bled away.
Her mother stopped moving.
A chill ran down Amara's spine as the world around her turned gray and lifeless.
"Mom?" she whispered.
And then—the scream.
Loud. Piercing. Filled with terror.
Amara's breath hitched. She turned toward the hallway, toward the study—where she knew she would find her father.
The door was open.
The floor was slick beneath her feet.
And her father was on the ground.
Lifeless.
A sharp gasp ripped through her as the walls around her darkened, closing in, drowning her in shadows—trapping her in the horror of her past.
She tried to move, but something grabbed her—cold, claw-like fingers wrapping around her wrist.
Her mother stood in front of her now.
But her face was wrong.
Blood smeared across her lips. Her eyes were hollow, dark, empty.
"You let this happen, Amara," she whispered, her voice twisted, echoing.
"You didn't stop it."
"You didn't stop it."
"You didn't stop it."
Amara jolted awake, gasping for breath.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat clinging to her skin despite the cool air in her apartment.
The dream—**the memory—**had felt too real.
Her fingers curled into the bedsheets as she tried to steady herself. It wasn't real.
Except it was.
Every night, the past came back for her.
And every night, it reminded her that she would never escape it.
She pressed a hand to her forehead, swallowing hard. She needed to breathe. Needed to push it away.
But some ghosts never faded.
Across the city, Rafael Aldridge sat in his dimly lit study, his fingers curled around a glass of whiskey. The liquid remained untouched, swirling lazily under the low glow of his desk lamp.
His mind should have been focused on the responsibilities his father had left him. The weight of an empire now resting in his hands.
Instead—his thoughts drifted.
To her.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. She was getting under his skin.
The way she looked at him—with defiance, with hesitation, with something she didn't even understand yet.
And earlier—when he had caught her, felt her against him—it had been too easy to want more.
His gaze dropped to his hand—the one that had touched her.
Her breath had hitched.
Her pulse had stuttered.
And for the first time in a long time, Rafael had felt something that wasn't cold calculation.
Something reckless.
Something dangerous.
He flexed his fingers slowly, jaw tightening. She was a problem.
And yet—he wasn't letting her go.
By the time Amara arrived at Ravenswood, the entire campus was alive with energy.
The courtyard was crowded, students grouped together in excited clusters, their voices rising in eager anticipation. The hum of chatter filled the air, a mix of laughter, competition, and ambition.
Something was happening.
She barely had time to settle before the speakers crackled to life.
"Attention, students!" A voice boomed across the campus. "The annual Ravenswood Club Festival is officially starting!"
Excited murmurs spread through the crowd.
"This is your moment! Every club will showcase its talents in an exclusive competition—an opportunity to prove your worth!"
Amara exhaled softly, pulling her coat tighter around herself.
Prove your worth.
She knew how this worked. Everyone would get their moment—except for her.
As the announcements continued, club leaders called out names, picking students for various roles. Every selection was met with cheers, pats on the back, celebratory laughter.
The sports club chose their fastest runners and strongest players.
The music club selected the most gifted vocalists and pianists.
The debate team picked the sharpest minds, students with voices that demanded to be heard.
One by one, students were called.
Amara wasn't.
Not the sports club.
Not the debate club.
Not the literature club.
She wasn't surprised.
They barely even looked at her.
She was a shadow in their world—always there, never seen.
But then, an opportunity.
A small, hesitant voice inside her whispered to fight back.
"Drama Club."
The words left her lips before she could second-guess herself.
Silence.
Then—laughter.
Sharp. Mocking.
A ripple of amusement spread through the crowd, hushed whispers turning into cruel smirks.
"You? In drama?" A girl sneered, arms crossed over her designer blazer.
"What role would you even play?" A boy scoffed.
"Oh, I know," another voice chimed in. "A beggar would suit her."
More laughter.
The heat of humiliation crawled up Amara's neck, settling on her skin like fire.
She knew this would happen. She should have kept quiet.
But instead of stepping back—she clenched her fists.
"What do I need to do?" Her voice wasn't loud, but it didn't waver.
The Drama Club president smirked.
Tall, confident, dressed in expensive cashmere—he was the kind of person who thrived in power. The kind of person who enjoyed making others feel small.
He tapped his chin thoughtfully, pretending to consider. Pretending to give her a chance.
Then—his smirk widened.
"Oh, don't worry." His voice dripped with amusement. "We have the perfect job for you."
The others snickered.
Amara knew.
This wasn't an invitation. It was humiliation dressed as opportunity.
And yet—she refused to back down.
Let them laugh.
She wouldn't break.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
Cleaning.
That was what they gave her.
Not acting.
Not rehearsing.
Not even a minor role.
Cleaning.
Amara's fingers tightened around the mop handle as she scrubbed at a stain on the stage floor, exhaustion weighing on her limbs. The other students had left long ago, their laughter and excitement echoing through the hallways while she remained behind, alone.
This wasn't an opportunity—it was a joke.
She had known it the moment the Drama Club president smirked at her. The way the others had laughed when her name was called.
They didn't want her here.
They just wanted to remind her of what she already knew.
She didn't belong.
Amara exhaled, rubbing her arms as the cold crept into her bones. The festival preparations had drained her, leaving behind nothing but an aching body and frustration. She needed to leave.
But then—a sound.
Low. Muffled.
A voice. A woman's.
She frowned, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
The voice was hushed, urgent—not quite a whisper, not quite a moan.
Curiosity tightened in her chest as she took a cautious step forward, peering around the edge of the thick velvet curtains.
And then—she saw them.
Her breath caught.
A student. A senior, tall and broad-shouldered.
And Professor Helena Sinclair.
Together.
Too close.
Her mind struggled to process what she was seeing—the way the professor's fingers curled around the student's tie, the way his hands gripped her waist. The way they pressed against each other like a secret waiting to be unraveled.
Shock paralyzed her.
Her stomach twisted as she tried to back away, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
But then—her foot slipped.
A sharp creak echoed in the silence.
Both figures froze.
And then—they saw her.
"Shit—"
The professor's eyes widened in horror, her grip on the student tightening as Amara's presence registered.
And then—chaos.
"Get her!" the student hissed.
Panic slammed into Amara's chest. She ran.
Her footsteps pounded against the marble floors as she tore through the empty hallways, the sound of chasing footsteps too close behind.
"Stop!" Helena's voice rang out, filled with desperation and fury.
But Amara didn't stop.
She couldn't.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her legs burning as she pushed herself forward.
"She saw too much!" the student growled. "We can't let her—"
Amara turned the corner sharply, nearly tripping over her own feet.
She could hear them gaining on her.
She needed to hide.
Needed to—
A hand grabbed her.
She gasped—but before she could scream, she was yanked into a dark room.
The door slammed shut.
Silence.
Amara's heart slammed against her ribs as she struggled against the iron grip holding her still.
"Easy, Lenz."
The deep, unmistakable voice froze her.
Rafael.
Her breath hitched, the panic still clawing at her chest as she realized where she was.
His office.
His hand was still wrapped around her wrist—firm, steady, possessive.
His body close. Too close.
The dim glow of his desk lamp barely illuminated the room, casting long shadows across his sharp features. He looked like a predator in the dark.
Her pulse refused to slow.
"You—" she started, but he cut her off.
"You're terrible at running," he murmured, his voice almost amused.
Her breathing was uneven as she looked up at him, his gray eyes watching her with quiet intensity.
"They—" she swallowed. "They were following me."
"I know," he said simply, his voice smooth, unbothered. Like he had expected this.
She clenched her fists, trying to shake off the lingering fear.
"They'll come looking for me," she whispered.
Rafael tilted his head slightly, his gaze unreadable, calculating.
"Let them."
The weight of those two words sent a different kind of shiver down her spine.
Then—his fingers brushed against her chin.
Not quite touching.
Just close enough to make her feel it.
Her breath hitched, her skin prickling with awareness.
"They won't touch you," he murmured. "Not while I'm here."
The room was too quiet.
The air was too heavy.
She should pull away.
She should run.
But she didn't.
She couldn't.
His presence was overpowering, an invisible force that wrapped around her and refused to let go.
Her body was still thrumming with adrenaline, her skin burning from the chase.
And Rafael—he knew it.
She could see it in the way his smirk deepened. In the way he leaned in ever so slightly, testing her, daring her to step back.
"You're shaking," he noted, his voice softer now, almost teasing.
Her fists clenched. "I'm not."
His lips twitched.
"Lying again?"
His fingers ghosted along the edge of her jaw—never touching, but making her feel as if he had.
"You're afraid of them," he continued, his breath warm against her skin. "But you're more afraid of this, aren't you?"
Her pulse pounded violently.
She hated him.
Hated that he was right.
She was more afraid of him.
Not because he would hurt her.
But because he wouldn't.
Because he was protecting her.
Because his presence—his warmth, his control—felt dangerously safe.
"Stay away from me, Rafael," she whispered, even though her body refused to move.
He smirked, his gaze dipping to her lips for just a second.
"Say that again."
Her breath caught.
His voice was so low now, so smooth, like silk wrapping around her, pulling her in.
His fingers traced the air between them—never touching, never crossing the line.
But making her want it.
She swallowed hard, her resolve crumbling.
"I—"
A sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.
She jolted.
Rafael didn't move.
His expression remained calm, unreadable. But there was something dangerous in his eyes now.
"Stay here," he murmured, his voice laced with quiet authority.
Before she could respond, he released her.
The warmth of his touch disappeared.
And she hated how much she missed it.
As he walked toward the door, her heart pounded, her body still betraying her.
Because no matter how much she told herself otherwise—
Rafael Aldridge wasn't just a threat to her sanity.
He was a threat to her self-control.
And worse?
She wasn't sure she wanted to escape him.