I’m not sure if it’s the steam or the panic or the heat pulsing between my ribs like a second heart.
I drop the photo onto my lap, clutching the blindfold so tightly my fingers ache.
“Kai,” I whisper into the steam, voice cracking.
I don’t know if it’s horror or longing or both tangled together in something poisonous.
And then?—
Something else catches my eye.
Something carved into the condensation on the shower glass.
Not deep.
Not obvious.
Subtle.
A fingertip dragged slowly, deliberately, with the patience of someone who stood in this room for longer than a heartbeat.
Four words.
Four quiet, devastating words:
YOU WON’T MARRY HIM
My chest caves.
My heartbeat staggers.
I cover my mouth with my shaking hand, a strangled, breathless sound crawling up my throat because this isn’t a threat from far away.
This isn’t a distant obsession.
This isn’t a ghost.
He was here.
In this villa.
In this shower.
Within arm’s reach of where I’m kneeling now.
Close enough to touch the glass.
Close enough to watch me sleep through the wall.
And as the steam curls and thickens, washing the room in a soft veil of heat—the words carved into the glass stay.
Stark.
Cold.
Permanent.
He isn’t giving me a choice.
