The morning sunlight touched the edges of my room, but everything still felt cold. My limbs were heavy with the weight of last night—his hands, his breath, the way he touched me without truly touching me. Damon.
A soft knock broke the silence.
"Alina?" my grandmother's voice called gently from the hallway.
I sat up quickly, combing my fingers through my tangled hair before she opened the door.
She stepped inside with quiet grace, but her eyes weren't as calm as her voice. "You didn't come home last night," she said. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I took a breath, choosing my words carefully. "Nani, I didn't mean to scare you. I wasn't thinking straight. I just needed some air... time to clear my head. I didn't expect the night to go the way it did." A pause. Then I added, "I'm sorry. I got carried away… and drank."
She studied me, concern softening the lines of her face.
"I promise, I'll never do that again," I added quickly, reaching for her hand. "I should've called."
She sighed, and something in her expression loosened. "I understand. Just… don't make a habit of it, beta. You have responsibilities. And people who worry."
I nodded. "I know."
She gave a small nod, then said, "Kevin was here last night. He said you two had a project. He waited for quite some time. When you didn't show up—or inform anyone—he left late."
My heart twisted. "He waited?"
"Yes," she said simply. "You should talk to him."
"I will," I whispered, guilt rising in my chest like smoke.
She touched my cheek gently before leaving the room, and when the door clicked shut behind her, I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
I dressed quickly, picking something that made me look less hollow than I felt. When I stepped out, Anaya was finishing her breakfast. She grinned when she saw me, and I forced a smile in return. I braided her hair while she chattered about school and her favorite cartoon.
Kevin was already waiting outside. He didn't say a word—just opened the car door and waited while we climbed in.
The silence was almost painful.
After we dropped Anaya off, I finally found the courage to speak.
"Kevin," I said softly, "I'm sorry. I should've called. I didn't mean to leave you waiting."
He didn't look at me. His knuckles tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "If you weren't coming, you could've just texted," he muttered.
"I know," I said, swallowing hard. "I wasn't thinking. It was stupid. I just… I wasn't okay last night."
A beat passed before I added, "Let me make it up to you? Lunch? My treat."
That sparked something—annoyance shifting into something softer.
"Fine," he said, not quite smiling. "But only if I get extra fries."
I smiled faintly. "Deal."
There was a pause. Then, quieter this time: "But where were you last night, Alina?"
His tone was gentle, but the weight behind it was anything but.
I froze.
I couldn't tell him the truth. That someone tried to hurt me. That Damon saved me—only to become something worse. Kevin couldn't be everywhere. He already carried too much for me.
So I lied.
"I think… I drank alcohol," I said, forcing a laugh. "Kev, I thought it was juice. You know I can't hold liquor. Atlanta asked me to stay and helped me through the hangover. It wasn't a big deal."
He glanced at me, frowning. "Atlanta?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Noah's mom."
Kevin stared, silent.
"Even though they're rich, she was kind. She asked me to stay for the party, and then, well, I got drunk."
"And guess who I ran into?" I added, trying to lighten the moment.
He didn't respond.
"The host. He was the man who came to the café, remember? The one who helped me in the club. Damon. He was hosting the event."
Kevin's silence was a wall, but I kept talking—too fast, too much.
"He was kind. Gentle, even. He made sure I was okay. Honestly, Kev… he's different. Quiet, intense. He's a really well-known businessman—thirty-five, I think. It was strange seeing someone like that act so… considerate."
Somewhere in the middle of that sentence, my mind drifted. To Damon. His scent. His eyes. The way he made me feel like I was floating and drowning all at once.
A quiet scoff snapped me back.
"That's great," Kevin muttered, eyes locked on the road. His jaw was tight. "Sounds like you had a whole night of revelations."
The sarcasm wasn't loud, but it cut deeper than I expected.
I looked down at my hands. "I just wanted to explain…"
"Yeah, well—thanks for explaining," he said, voice clipped. "We're here."
We had reached college.
Neither of us said anything as he parked. The silence now was different. Colder. Final.
I stepped out, clutching my bag, feeling like I'd just broken something I didn't know how to fix.
In college, we discussed the project together. Kevin kept his responses short—efficient, polite, but distant. The kind of distance that builds not from anger, but from hurt.
At lunch, I insisted on paying. A promise was a promise.
He didn't argue, but the smile I hoped to see never came. He poked at his fries, nodding absently while I tried to fill the silence between us with meaningless chatter.
Something about his quietness pressed against my chest.
"Dinner," I said suddenly, breaking the lull. "You're coming to my house tonight."
He blinked at me, caught off guard. "Dinner?"
"I'm making biryani," I said firmly. "Well, Nani is. But I'll help. You're coming. No arguments."
For a heartbeat, he just looked at me—confused, hesitant—then finally, the faintest curve touched his lips.
"As long as it's Nani's biryani," he murmured. "You know I used to dream about that stuff as a kid."
I smiled, something warm settling between us again, fragile but present. "She still makes it the same way."
After college, Kevin dropped me home. The air between us was lighter, but still laced with things unsaid.
"I have some errands to run," he said, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. "But I'll be there. Dinner, seven?"
"Seven," I confirmed. "Don't be late."
He nodded, eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second before looking away. "I won't."
And then he was gone, the silence following me into the house like a second shadow.
But this time, it didn't feel quite as heavy.
Damon's POV
The room was still, silent in a way that comforted most but suffocated me.
Only the soft click of my fingers danced against the keys—lines of coded exports, ship routes across oceans, hidden compartments carrying secrets no law would touch. My empire bled through numbers and shadows. Clean on the surface. Rotten underneath—just the way I liked it.
Until he stormed in.
Adrion didn't knock. He never did when it concerned him.
I didn't look up. "What is it?"
His silence lasted too long.
Then: "He's back."
The world slowed.
Only one man could twist that word into something venomous. I raised my gaze, cold and sharp.
"Who?"
Adrion's voice was a blade. "Antonio. He's back in Italy."
The name was a curse.
Every part of me stilled.
My father.
No. Not a father. Never a father. Just a man who wore the title like a crown made of blood.
I leaned back in the chair, my fingers curling into fists on the armrest. "What's he doing?"
Adrion's eyes darkened. "Picking up where he left off. Drug trade. Prostitution rings. Weapons. Now he's dealing with the African syndicates—trying to rebuild the old empire. Piece by piece."
My pulse ticked beneath my skin. My jaw clenched so hard it ached.
"He's coming here," Adrion continued. "Next month."
A long pause.
"To finalize a deal with Victor."
I didn't speak. My stare held him still, the weight of what I already suspected pressing into the space between us.
"What deal?" My voice was quiet, too quiet.
Adrion hesitated. Just a second. But I caught it.
"Marriage."
I felt the word splinter through my mind, cold and jagged.
"To Veronica," he added. "Victor's daughter."
The silence cracked.
I rose from my chair, slow and deliberate, the leather creaking under the tension coiled in my limbs.
And then— Crack.
My fist drove into the desk, shattering the edge. Wood splintered beneath my knuckles.
"That motherfucker," I growled. "That calculating, pathetic bastard."
Rage burned beneath my skin, but I didn't let it spill. Not fully. Not yet.
Adrion didn't flinch. He hated him too. Antonio destroyed more than just my childhood—he'd scarred Adrion too. A man who called himself family but treated blood like a pawn on a board he owned.
"He thinks I'm still his puppet," I muttered. "That I'll bend. Play nice. Marry his chosen whore and smile for the cameras."
A bitter laugh left me—low, broken, dangerous.
"He doesn't know me anymore."
Adrion stepped closer. "We can shut it down. I'll alert—"
"No." I turned toward the window. The city pulsed below, unaware of the quiet war brewing above.
"Let him plan," I said slowly. "Let him think he's winning. That he can still control me. That I'll wear the ring and bow to his empire."
A slow smile touched my lips—cold and cruel.
"I'll marry her, if that's what it takes. I'll bleed into his game until he thinks he owns me."
And then I'll burn everything down around him.
"I've waited a long time for this," I whispered. "This time, I write the rules."
Adrion didn't speak. He didn't need to.
We both knew what came next.
War.
But not the kind you fought with guns or soldiers.
This would be quieter. More personal.
The kind that breaks a man from the inside.
Just like he did to me.
"Then what about the girl you're stalking?" Adrion chuckled darkly, his voice low, taunting.
Alina. My Alina. The name bloomed in my chest like a bruise. Yes, I was stalking her. Yes, I needed her. But marriage? That wasn't the plan. She wasn't my type— too soft, too pure, too breakable. I wasn't made for love. I was made for possession.
Still, the thought of letting her go made something primal snarl inside me.
Adrion leaned forward, amusement dancing in his cold eyes. "So, gonna let her go like your other whores?" he smirked.
I snapped.
"No." The word tore from my throat like a growl, raw and final.
But Adrion didn't flinch. He never did. He knew me— all the rot, the fire, the obsession.
I clenched my jaw, trying to cage the storm inside me. "She's not like them. She's mine." My voice was rough with hunger and fury. "She will be with me… until her death. As mine."
Adrion's smirk faded. And I realized it then— I wasn't just obsessed. I was owned.
I stormed out of my study, the door slamming behind me like the echo of a war drum. Fury licked up my spine like wildfire—hot, unrelenting, and ancient, sat in my car and grabbed my cigarette and puffing it in fury.
"Let her go?" The words ricocheted in my skull, absurd, insulting, laughable.
Let her go. Let my Alina go?
Never. Not in this lifetime. Not in any world where my breath still lingers.
She will be with me. Even if I must clip her wings and drag her to hell by her halo. Even if the title I offer her is not of wife but mistress.
Would she agree? A silence curled around the thought like smoke, thick and taunting.
But I answered myself with a cruel, guttural laugh. Who needs her permission?
She was mine. She is mine. Her will, her resistance—it's temporary. A fragile, fading flame before the storm.
I needed to see her. Now. To remind her. To remind myself. To possess her again, if only with a glance, a breath, a threat.
But then—
Something caught the corner of my eye.
Down on the seat, half-hidden beneath the shadows, lay a small purse. Feminine. Soft. Her scent still lingered on it—rose water, coffee, and a trace of something innocent, something warm. Alina.
My world slow down again. A hush fell within me. I reached for it, fingers curling around the soft leather like I was touching her bare skin. A smirk tugged at the corners of my mouth, slow and venomous.
"What are you doing to me love ?" I murmured and order driver to go to her house.
Fate was always kind to monsters. And tonight, it had given me a reason to see her again.
No more waiting. No more hiding behind masks.
She would look into my eyes and see the truth. That she had always belonged to me— Mind, body, soul.
Alina's POV
I had the whole day off tomorrow—it was a Sunday, finally a break from work and college chaos. Grandma and I were in the kitchen, busy making biryani. The rich aroma of spices swirled around the house like a warm hug. I was in my comfort zone: short pajamas, an oversized tee, and my hair tossed into a messy bun that defied gravity.
"Are you going to stand there like that, young lady?" Grandma scolded with mock seriousness, her eyes twinkling.
I grinned. "Come on, it's just Kev. He's seen me like this since I was ten."
As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
I rushed to open it, throwing my arms around Kevin in a quick, excited hug. "Biryani will be ready in fifteen minutes. You better wait for it."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he smirked.
Before we could say anything more, Anaya darted into the room with her usual whirlwind energy as we walked out to get some fresh air. We all started chatting, laughter echoing off as the warmth.
Suddenly, Anaya teased me about my bed hair, and I playfully lunged at her, ready to tackle her to the ground.
"I'm gonna beat you!" I warned.
She squealed and hid behind Kevin. "Save me!"
Kevin chuckled, clearly amused as I reached around him to catch her. "You're on your own, kid," he said, raising his hands in surrender.
"Coward," I muttered with a laugh, still trying to grab her.
Just then, Grandma's voice called from the kitchen, "Food's ready, come before it gets cold!"
We turned, about to head to the dining table— I felt the air is more colder than usual something unusual and something in me said to hide.
Damon's POV:
I moved toward her, every step deliberate, every thought fixated on her. It wasn't the distance between us that mattered—no, it was the way she glowed, the way she filled the air with a presence that pulled at me, even from across the room.
She stood there, draped in that oversized shirt, a hideous attempt at modesty. But it didn't fool me. It only made the hunger within me rise faster.
I saw through it—the way the fabric clung to the soft curve of her waist, the small dip of her lower back that begged to be touched. I knew her body. I could picture every inch of her, hidden and revealed.
She was laughing. Touching him. Kevin. That pathetic fool. He had the nerve to smile at her, to touch her. Her laugh—God, the sound of it was a dagger to my chest.
The way she laughed, it was like she didn't understand. Like she didn't realize the damage it did to me. And Kevin... that idiot. He didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve to be the one she reached out to, to feel the warmth of her touch.
I clenched my fists, willing myself to keep control. I had to keep control. But damn it, it was getting harder.
I watched as Kevin placed a hand on her arm, the way his fingers lingered there too long. It was like he was staking his claim. Like he was marking her, and it made my blood burn with a ferocity I hadn't felt in a long time.
The possessiveness twisted inside me, cutting deeper than it ever had before. I couldn't let him have her. Not like this. Not when I was so close, when every part of me screamed that she belonged to me.
I saw her legs. The bare, smooth skin. It was as if the world around me disappeared, everything blurred except for the way her legs gleamed in the soft light, the way her body moved so effortlessly, so... naturally. She didn't know how it affected me.
She didn't know how much I wanted to claim her right there, how much I needed to feel her skin beneath mine, to press my lips to those soft, perfect legs of hers. To mark her in a way no one else could, to make her understand that every touch, every inch of her, belonged to me. I breathed in sharply, the air suddenly thick with my desire.
Her hair, pulled into that messy bun, looked so soft, so untamed. It was a perfect reflection of what she was to me—untouched, unclaimed, and so fragile in her innocence. I could see the stray strands, the way they fell, begging for someone to touch them.
To caress them. To tangle their fingers in the softness of it and pull her closer. I wanted to. I wanted to take all that innocence and twist it into something darker. I wanted to see the truth of her in my arms, tangled in my sheets, tangled in me.
But she was laughing. Laughing with him. Playing. Touching him back. Her fingers grazing his skin. I could see the way she looked at him with that warm, trusting smile, like she didn't know how wrong it was, like she didn't know that I was watching, waiting. But I was. I was always watching, always waiting.
And then, it happened. She touched him again. Her hand on his chest, his hand on hers. That slow, intimate pressure of skin on skin. It was too much. I could feel the control slipping away.
I could feel the darkness within me stir, urging me to act. To punish them both. To make them realize that no one—no one—could touch her the way I wanted to.
Her eyes were shining. So wide. So innocent. She had no idea. She had no idea how far this would go. She didn't understand the pull she had on me, the way every little thing she did consumed me.
I wanted to drag her out of this place, out of his reach, and show her just how much she was mine. How much she would always be mine, whether she knew it or not.
I couldn't take it anymore. I could feel the burn in my chest, my fists tightening as I watched her. Kevin was still there, still holding onto her. His hand moving down her arm. It was almost too much. Almost. But I couldn't act yet. Not like this. Not in the open. I had to wait. I had to be patient.
And Kevin? Kevin was a fool. He had to be taught a lesson. He had to understand that no one touched her like that. No one else had the right to feel the warmth of her skin, to feel the soft touch of her hand against theirs.
It was mine to claim. And I would make sure she understood that. I would make sure Kevin understood that.
Slowly, deliberately, I started to move closer. The heat in me building with each step, each breath. The darkness was pulling me in, whispering in my ear, urging me to act, to take control, to make her see. And soon, she would.
Soon, she would realize exactly what I could do, how far I was willing to go to make her mine. And no one—not Kevin, not anyone—would be able to stop me.
The game was just beginning.