By the time she drifted into the connected cafe space, I’d already slipped back out the front door. The cafe had floor-to-ceiling windows and a glass door that opened onto the sidewalk, making it easy for me to keep an eye on her. I lit a cigarette and did a simple AI search:Romance book+Her Soul to Keep + plot summary + reviews.
In seconds, the book’s information came up.
Her Soul to Keepby Alessa Vale.Billionaire recluse. Young journalist. A spiraling descent into psychological control,bondage, and forced obedience wrapped in silk ribbons. Age Gap. BDSM. Alpha Male. Dub-con.
Dozens of five-star reviews praised it, with one reader saying it was “unhinged, possessive, obsessive—everything you crave but can’t ask for.”
Jesus.
Maybe she was like all the rest—shiny on the outside, tarnished on the inside.
I scanned more reviews.
“Sinister. Erotic. Addictive.Lovedthe primal domination.”
“This book isnotfor the faint of heart. The heroine is young and naïve; the hero is a tech mogul who manipulates her entire life from the shadows. It’s filthy. It’s obsessive. It’s everything.”
Heat coursed through my veins.
She liked the idea of a man pulling the strings behind the scenes just to get close.
Maybe she didn’t know it consciously. Maybe it was just a fantasy on the page. But still—there was something deep inside of her that was chasing darker pleasures.
And I had already delivered the first chapter.
Through the window of the cafe, I watched her order a sandwich and sit alone in a corner booth with her new book. She read while she ate, taking slow bites between long stretches of reading. She lingered there, completely absorbed, savoring every bite and word on the page.
Whatever was in that book, it had her—enough to make her forget the world outside. I remained there, observing her as time slipped by. It was like the whole world had narrowed to that booth, that book, that girl.
Eventually, she slipped the book into her backpack, rose from the booth, and pushed through the side glass door. The spell was broken. She rejoined the city as if nothing had happened—likeshe hadn’t just spent almost two hours lost in someone else’s fantasies.
She headed east and stepped into a corner bodega, moving slowly and thoughtfully through the store. She paused at the produce bins, inspecting each piece—fingers squeezing, nose dipping in close. Then she weaved through the narrow aisles, gathering what looked like a modest haul. Abruptly, she stopped. Pulled out her wallet. Counted the cash and counted it again. She took a sharp turn and moved back toward the frozen food section—the cheesecake hadn’t made the cut.
She’d bought a romance novel instead.
Interesting.
It was nearly dark by the time she left the bodega and headed toward Hell’s Kitchen. I followed her past 9th Avenue as the streetlamps were blinking awake.
She was looking at her phone again.
Head down. Not a clue in the goddamn world about what was going on around her.
Her lack of situational awareness pissed me off.
We were three blocks deep into a part of Hell’s Kitchen I wouldn’t let my sister walk through in daylight, and this girl was strolling along like it was Sunday at a goddamn farmers’ market.
My teeth clenched.
She didn’t see the twitchy guy pissing behind a dumpster. Didn’t register the two men on the sidewalk across the street who stopped talking to track her ass with their eyes.
I lit a cigarette as I walked faster, closing the distance until I was directly across the street from her, matching her pace.
Her backpack hung loosely off one shoulder, and she carried two grocery bags in one hand, which thudded against her knee with every step. She still hadn’t looked up from her phone.
I took a long drag, then exhaled hard through my nose.
My mind grew dark with the thought of what a man like me could do to her.
