Ana didn't sleep that night.
She barely breathed.
Each time her eyes fluttered shut, Hayden's voice clawed its way back through the darkness, searing itself into her skull.
"Because you're the daughter of the man who burned my mother alive."
The words had weight. They dripped with hate, saturated with grief, edged with fire.
Her wrist still pulsed from his grip, the ghost of his fingers etched into her skin like bruised poetry. Her cheek ached from slapping him—her act of defiance—but the real pain throbbed deeper. Inside her chest. Sick. Electric. Alive.
She should have felt fury.
She should have drowned in rage.
But hate—hate was pure.
What she felt now was polluted. Tangled with confusion, guilt… and something far more dangerous.
*Desire.*
It shamed her.
It thrilled her.
It terrified her.
She sat on the floor of her dim apartment, surrounded by shadows, a half-full glass of wine untouched beside her. Her phone screen glowed with missed calls—twelve from her father, all unanswered.
He could always sense when she was unraveling.
But Ana didn't answer.
Not yet.
She needed to think. To breathe. To claw back some semblance of control.
Only, Hayden had taken that from her. Stolen it with every word, every stare, every calculated touch. Now he lived in her head—in the silence between her thoughts, in the air she pulled into her lungs.
The night still smelled like him. Smoke. Spice. Danger.
She'd walked into his world thinking she could stand toe-to-toe with him.
She hadn't even seen the depth of the abyss.
---
The next morning, she found it.
A small, black velvet box lying just outside her door.
No note.
No label.
No signature.
Just silence, wrapped in mystery.
Her heart thudded as she picked it up, dread and anticipation warring beneath her ribs. She hesitated for a full minute before flipping open the lid.
Inside, a necklace.
Gold. Thin. Intricate.
From the center, a single ruby teardrop dangled like blood on snow.
Her first instinct was to throw it away—hurl it across the hall, shatter its meaning into oblivion.
But her fingers closed around it instead.
And she held it.
Too long.
She didn't wear it.
Not yet.
But she didn't discard it either.
---
Three days passed.
Three days of silence.
No messages. No threats. No roses. No Hayden.
And somehow, that was worse than his presence.
The quiet carved her open in ways his words never could.
He had lit a fire beneath her skin and vanished—leaving the embers to smolder on their own.
By the fourth night, her resolve cracked.
She called her father.
He answered on the first ring. His voice tight. Controlled. "Where have you been?"
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
"You don't sound fine."
There was a pause—long, heavy.
Then: "Dad, did something happen? Years ago? Between us and another family? When I was a kid… maybe ten?"
Silence.
Then a shift.
His voice dropped—cool, clipped, guarded. "Why are you asking that?"
"Because someone found me. A man. He says… he says you killed his mother. That you set a fire. That I was there."
Another pause. Longer.
"You're never to speak to him again," her father said sharply. "Do you hear me? Never."
"Dad—"
"I *mean it*, Ana. He's dangerous. His family—they're monsters. He's using you. Trying to get to me."
"Did you do it?" she whispered.
A beat.
And then the lie.
> "No."
But she heard it.
The slight hitch in his breath.
The hollow edge of his tone.
The truth was buried in the silence between syllables.
And everything Hayden had said slammed back into her like a wave of fire.
She couldn't trust her father.
Not anymore.
---
That night, she drank half a bottle of wine.
Sat alone.
Watched the ruby glint in the candlelight like a drop of blood frozen in gold.
By midnight, she gave in.
She clasped the necklace around her neck.
It lay against her collarbone, cool and sharp—like a kiss and a threat all in one.
It wasn't just jewelry.
It was a brand.
A warning.
A surrender.
She shouldn't have worn it.
But some part of her *wanted* him to see it.
---
The next day, he came.
Not under cover of darkness.
Not in secret.
But in daylight.
In a sleek black car that waited outside her gallery like a panther poised to strike.
The tinted window rolled down, and Hayden's face emerged—calm, composed, lethal.
"Get in."
She stood frozen, her heart hammering. The necklace burned against her skin.
He noticed.
"You're wearing it," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
"I was curious."
"No," he smirked. "You missed me."
"You're delusional."
"And you're lying."
She hated that he was right.
But she got in anyway.
---
They didn't go to his penthouse.
They drove through the outskirts of the city, past crumbling factories and overgrown lots, until they reached a private estate surrounded by thick woods.
An iron gate creaked open at their arrival.
The path twisted like a serpent through ancient trees before revealing the house—stone and wood, old-world and menacing. A fortress, not a home.
Ana didn't ask questions.
Not anymore.
Inside, the estate was darker than his high-rise. Heavy with silence. Wood. Leather. Shadows. A fireplace glowed faintly in the corner, casting flickers across the walls.
"This place feels like a trap," she muttered.
Hayden closed the door behind her. No smile. Just truth.
> "It is."
He poured whiskey into two crystal glasses at the bar. Pushed one toward her.
She didn't touch it.
"You said you wanted answers," he said. "But you haven't earned them."
"I'm not a pet you train with breadcrumbs."
"No," he replied smoothly. "You're prey. There's a difference."
She slammed the glass down, unbroken but trembling. "Is that what I am to you? A deer in the woods?"
His eyes darkened, black with interest and something more primal.
"No. You're a flame. And I want to see how close I can get before I burn."
Her breath caught in her throat.
Because she believed him.
Because she wanted to burn, too.
---
They didn't kiss.
But the space between them sizzled.
He stalked her senses like a predator, heat pulsing through her limbs, her skin alive under his gaze.
She walked away—if only to breathe—and found herself by a grand piano nestled in the shadows.
"You play?" she asked softly.
He came up behind her. Silent. Close.
"I don't have time for soft things."
"Then why own one?"
He didn't answer.
She touched a single key. It rang through the room, haunting.
Then his breath warmed the back of her neck, close enough to set her nerves alight.
"You want to be ruined, Ana?" he asked.
She turned her head slightly, her pulse fluttering like wings in her throat. "You think I'm weak?"
"No," he said. "I think you've never been touched the way you *need* to be."
Her eyes narrowed. "And you think *you* can do that?"
He leaned in, barely a whisper between them.
"I *will* do it."
Then he turned and walked away.
Leaving her standing there—
Hot.
Shaken.
Hungry.
---
That night, Ana returned to her apartment in a haze.
Locked the door.
Removed the necklace slowly, reverently.
But when she looked in the mirror, she saw it had already left a faint red mark across her collarbone.
A mark.
A scar.
A promise.
There was no turning back now.
Not from him.
Not from the fire.
Not from the truth.