Click.
The sound is soft, mechanical, and comes from the front door.
I freeze. My blood turns to ice water in my veins.
It wasn't a knock. It was the sound of the deadbolt sliding back.
I watch, paralyzed, as the doorknob turns. Slowly. Deliberately. It’s not the jiggling, frantic motion of a junkie trying to break in. It’s the smooth, confident turn of someone who has a key.
But no one has a key. Not the super. Not my father. Just me.
The door swings open.
A shadow fills the frame.
He is massive. That’s my first coherent thought. He takes up the entire doorway, his shoulders nearly brushing the sides. He’s backlit by the flickering halogen light of the hallway, rendering him a silhouette of pure, imposing darkness.
He steps inside.
He closes the door behind him and locks it.Click.The sound is final. Like the lid of a coffin snapping shut.
"Who are you?" My voice is a pathetic croak, barely a whisper.
He doesn't answer immediately. He stands there, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket. He’s dressed impeccably—a black three-piece suit that looks like it costs more than this entire building. A long charcoal overcoat hangs from his shoulders. He looks like a king who took a wrong turn into the slums.
Then he steps into the slice of light from the window, and I see his face.
I stop breathing.
He is beautiful. Terrifyingly, painfully beautiful. High, sharp cheekbones that look like they were carved from marble. A jawline so strong it looks aggressive. His hair is dark, styled back with severe precision, but a single strand has fallen loose onto his forehead.
But it’s his eyes that pin me to the spot. They are dark, endless voids, burning with a cold, blue fire that seems to strip me naked right here in the middle of my bedroom.
And there’s a scar. A thin, jagged white line cutting through his left eyebrow, marring the perfection just enough to make him dangerous.
"Hello, Ivy," he says.
His voice is deep, a baritone rumble that I feel in my stomach. It vibrates through the floorboards, through the soles of my feet, and settles between my thighs.
He knows my name.
"Get out," I say, trying to inject force into my voice, but I’m backing away, moving toward my desk. "I’ll scream. I swear to God, I’ll scream."
He tilts his head, watching me move with the predatory focus of a wolf watching a rabbit. He doesn't look concerned. He looks... amused.
"You can scream," he says calmly, taking a step forward. His movements are fluid, predatory. "But no one is coming. The building is empty, Ivy. I bought it an hour ago."
My back hits the edge of the desk. My hand scrambles behind me, fingers closing around the cold metal handle of the X-Acto knife.
"You... you bought the building?" The absurdity of it makes me dizzy.
"I like privacy," he says simply. "And I don't like sharing my things."
My things.
He’s talking about me.
"I’m not a thing," I snap, the adrenaline finally overriding the shock. "And I’m not yours."
