DYLAN
I didn't agree to come.
I didn't even pack a bag.
One moment I was curled up on my couch, flanked by my best friends and Dylan's fury — the next, I was in the back seat of his car, the city lights slicing through tinted windows like warnings.
Now I'm standing in the middle of Dylan's penthouse.
I've seen it in photos. Headlines. Gossip pages.
But being inside it is something else. The ceilings stretch into the sky like they're trying to touch the stars. The windows wrap around the entire building, glass panels like a fortress made of moonlight and steel.
"This is too much," I whisper. "I can't stay here, Dylan. I have my apartment, my space—"
"You were just threatened in your own home," he cuts in, voice like thunder wrapped in silk. "They knew you were there. They knew you were alone. You think I'm going to let you go back to that?"
I blink. "It's just until—"
"Until what?" he snaps. "Until they break in? Until they do more than just send words? No. You're staying here."
His voice softens. "Where I can protect you."
Two guards are already stationed in the lobby. A third one is outside the elevator. And Dylan introduces me to a fourth Tom— , who will be my personal shadow. Former special forces, discreet, silent, and built like a nightmare.
"Lucien reports directly to me," Dylan says as he walks me through the security system. "Nobody gets near you. Not even a ghost."
"Dylan—"
"I mean it, Hermione."
He turns to me, all the heat in his eyes stripped away, replaced with something colder.
"I'm not a prisoner, Dylan."
"You're not," he says, jaw clenching. "You're protected."
I cross my arms, standing barefoot in the middle of the penthouse's sprawling living room. "A bodyguard? Security cameras? Tracking devices next?"
"I already had one installed in your phone."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"You're angry now," he murmurs, stepping closer, "but you'll thank me if that psychopath ever gets close again."
I narrow my eyes. "You don't get to make that decision for me."
"You weren't going to make it for yourself, Hermione."
My breath catches. His voice doesn't rise. It sharpens — like a blade pressed just beneath skin. And it's not control. It's fear.
He's afraid.
"Dylan…" I soften. "You can't bubble wrap me just because something bad happened."
He runs a hand through his hair. "You didn't see the message. You didn't see how twisted it was."
"I did."
He shakes his head. "You read it. I heard it." He steps in again, slower this time, eyes storm-dark and unblinking. "It was a scream for help laced in venom. And it was meant for you. The girl you were. The woman you became. And the life you're living with me."
My lips part.
He exhales like it hurts to breathe. "Do you understand what that means?"
I don't answer.
I just look at him.
The billionaire. The boss. The cold strategist with bloodline money and a face sculpted by obsession.
But right now, he looks like a man on the edge.
Like I'm his beginning and his end.
And he's terrified I might be taken from him.
I sigh. "Fine. One bodyguard."
His relief is immediate, but he doesn't say thank you. He just pulls me into his arms like he never wants to let go again.
We're in his bedroom later. I'm curled against his chest, my legs tangled over his, my cheek resting where his heart beats steady and hard.
His palm strokes lazy circles over my back, bare skin against silk sheets.
His other hand cups my thigh, holding me in place as I straddle his lap.
"You always knew I looked into you," he murmurs, brushing his lips against my shoulder.
"I did."
"And you never said anything?"
"I was curious how far you'd go," I say, smiling softly. "And I was flattered. A little creeped out… but mostly flattered."
"I went very far," he admits.
I pull back just enough to look at him. "How far?"
He stares at me like I already know the answer. "I flew to Lagos. Found the clinic where the adoption was processed. Dug through twenty-three years of paper records in a rusted archive in Ibadan. Paid off a retired nurse who remembered your birthmark."
My breath hitches.
He keeps going. "I even spoke to your grandparents' old pastor in Chicago. And the woman who ran your dorm at Stanford."
I shake my head, half in awe, half horrified. "You're insane."
"I know."
"You didn't have to do all that."
"I did. Because the second I met you, I knew you were mine. And I needed to know why the world tried so hard to keep you hidden."
He pauses, cupping my face. "And now I think someone out there resents that I found you before they could."
His words slice through the fog.
I exhale shakily, resting my forehead against his. "What if they're not just jealous?"
"Then I'll bury them."
I let out a soft laugh, even though nothing is funny. "You'd kill for me."
"I'd kill anyone who even thinks of hurting you."
Silence falls.
Thick. Heavy. Real.
I nestle deeper into him, sitting fully in his lap, my arms wrapping around his shoulders, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. "You scare me sometimes."
He kisses me slowly — the kind of kiss that tastes like possession and prayers — and pulls me tighter into him.
"You scare me too," he whispers. "Because I've never cared about anything the way I care about you. Not money. Not power. Nothing."
My heart cracks wide open.
Because I feel it, too — this firestorm between us.
The love. The madness.
And the danger that someone out there wants to tear it all apart.
My fingers trace lazy circles on Dylan's chest, still curled in his lap. The heat between us has settled into something deeper. Softer. Still intense, but no longer on fire.
We're quiet.
Until he speaks.
"I need to meet your grandparents."
I blink, lifting my head. "What?"
His eyes are on me — steady, serious. "I need to talk to them."
"About…?"
"Things only they would know. Things I can't find in files or through people."
"Dylan…"
He brushes a knuckle down my cheek. "Hermione, your parents are gone. You said it yourself — they adopted you right after you were born, and your grandparents raised you after the accident."
I nod slowly.
"There's a piece missing," he continues. "A detail I haven't found yet. Something about where you came from… something someone else thinks they deserve more than you." His voice tightens. "And I need to know why."
I searched his face. "So you think the person who sent the threat…?"
"Knows more about your past than we do," he says bluntly. "Maybe even knew your birth parents. Maybe wanted the life you got. The life they didn't have."
My chest twists. "I don't know if Nana and Pops will even remember—"
"They will," he says with quiet certainty. "Or at least something that'll help connect the dots."
I rest my forehead against his again. "You're really doing all of this for me."
"You're my whole world, Hermione."
Silence.
Thick with emotion.
Then I whisper, "Okay. We'll go see them."
His arms tighten around me. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" I blink.
"I'm not waiting."
I laugh softly. "Of course you're not."
"You'll stay with me until then. My penthouse is already locked down."
"Bodyguard still included?"
He smiles — slow and satisfied. "Absolutely."
I groan, half-laughing, and nuzzle into his neck.
"You love it," he murmurs, pressing a kiss into my hair.
"I love you." I whisper against his skin.
His hands still. Then he lifts my face gently and kisses me again — this time with no urgency. Just quiet, burning devotion.