Elena didn't sleep after he left.
The air in her apartment still felt tainted by his presence, heavy with the ghost of his touch. She could still hear his voice, deep and possessive, whispering his claim like it was law, like it was something she would have no choice but to accept.
She sat upright in bed, fingers gripping the sheets as if they could anchor her back to reality. But reality had already shifted. Damian had stepped into her world, uninvited, unwanted, and yet… she hadn't screamed when she saw him standing there. She hadn't fought him off when he touched her.
She should have.
But some part of her knew, deep down, that it wouldn't have mattered. Damian Costa wasn't a man you denied. He wasn't a man you fought against and won.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She needed to move. Needed to do something other than sit here and let fear consume her.
She walked to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her reflection was a stranger's—wide, anxious eyes, parted lips, skin still tingling from where his fingers had traced her throat.
What had she gotten herself into?
---
By morning, she convinced herself that last night had been some kind of warning. A reminder that Damian could reach her anywhere, at any time. But he was done now. He had left, and if she was smart, she would pretend it never happened.
She went through the motions of her morning routine, dressing in a way that made her feel put together, like she had control over something—anything. By the time she stepped out of her apartment, she had almost convinced herself that she could push him out of her mind.
But the moment she stepped outside, she felt it.
The weight of eyes on her.
She turned sharply, scanning the street, but it was as it always was—people walking, cars honking in the distance, life moving forward. Yet, she knew better.
She wasn't alone.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She refused to be afraid. If Damian thought he could just waltz into her life and haunt her from the shadows, he was wrong.
She wouldn't play his game.
---
By midday, Elena had pushed the lingering paranoia aside enough to focus on work. She threw herself into the endless tasks at the art gallery, handling clients, managing inventory, and pretending like her life was still normal.
Until she saw it.
A single white rose on her desk.
Her breath caught in her throat. No note. No explanation. But she knew.
She grabbed it, storming out of the office and straight into the bustling streets of the city. Her pulse was a violent rhythm in her ears as she scanned the crowd. Was he here? Watching?
Her fingers tightened around the stem until a thorn pricked her skin.
He was everywhere. Even when she couldn't see him, she could feel him.
A vibration in her pocket pulled her out of her thoughts. She fished out her phone, her stomach twisting at the unknown number flashing across the screen.
She hesitated, then answered.
"Elena." His voice was a dark caress, sending a shiver down her spine.
She swallowed hard. "Stay away from me."
A low chuckle. "You say that, but I see you're still holding the rose."
Her grip faltered, and she glanced around wildly. "Where are you?"
"Closer than you think."
A chill crept down her spine.
"You don't get to do this," she hissed, forcing steel into her voice. "You don't own me."
His laughter was soft, dangerous. "No, not yet. But tell me, Elena… if you truly wanted me gone, why haven't you thrown the rose away?"
Her breath caught. Her fingers trembled. She hated that he was right.
There was a moment of silence between them before he finally spoke again, his voice lower now, intimate.
"Tonight. 8 PM. There's a car waiting for you outside the gallery. Get in it."
She opened her mouth to refuse, but the line went dead before she could speak.
She stared at the phone, pulse thundering, her mind screaming at her to ignore him.
But deep down, she already knew she wouldn't.
And that terrified her more than anything else.