Silas sat back on the edge of Grace's bed. The journal still rested in his lap, its leather warm from his touch. He ran his thumb over a line she'd written—something soft and naïve about how love should feel like home, not war. He could almost hear her voice reading it aloud, tucked in with blankets and candlelight, never knowing he was the storm creeping in.
He stayed longer than he had intended. Long enough to trace the rim of her teacup in the kitchen. To brush his fingers across the piano keys in the sitting room, pressing down one quiet note and letting it echo in the stillness. He moved like a memory, ghosting through her space. Not stealing. Just existing in her world before she returned to it.
Everything had a story. A chipped plate she couldn't part with. A crooked photo frame in her hallway. The closet had her scent, but the kitchen held her rhythm. And in that rhythm, Silas found a strange calm. Like he already belonged there.
But belonging wasn't enough.
He knew now, after reading her diary, seeing her world, that wanting her would never be enough. He had to become what she wanted. Or at least convince her he was.
He memorized her vulnerability. Stored it like treasure.
When he finally rose, he took care to reset everything. The journal back where it had been. The closet closed. The faintest trace of his presence wiped clean.
And then he left. Silent as breath.
The drive back to his place was heavy. Silas gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles pale against the leather. He liked driving at night, liked the way the empty streets gave him time to think. It made him feel in control. Alone, but not lonely. Every red light, every quiet turn, gave him time to replay the images of her space, her scent, her diary. The engine purred beneath him like a co-conspirator. The men he had for research, surveillance, and maintenance of his persona, he didn't need them tonight. It was personal.
At home, the lights were dim. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat in front of the monitors. Her penthouse appeared in crystal clarity. One screen showed the living room, where she had just stepped inside. Another her bedroom, untouched. The third showed her kitchen, where she dropped her clutch on the counter and let out a long sigh.
On the other side, Grace was home.
And she had no idea.
She moved with ease. No paranoia, no glance over her shoulder. She poured wine, slipped off her heels, and tied her hair into a loose knot. Silas watched, breathing in sync with her every move.
She turned on music. Something soft and jazzy. Her body swayed gently as she walked into the living room, drink in hand, her black dress hugging her like liquid midnight.
He leaned forward.
She smiled at something on her phone. Laughed. Tucked her legs beneath her as she curled into the couch. Vulnerable. Unmasked. The real Grace.
And he was the only man in the world seeing her like this.
He shifted in his seat, gaze locked to the screen. Her every gesture was a whisper against his chest, a thread winding tighter through his ribs. She stretched, her sweater riding up just a little, revealing a sliver of skin that made his breath hitch. He imagined what it would be like to trace that line with his mouth. To be the reason she laughed like that. To hold her, not through pixels, but flesh.
He thought about the way she folded into herself when she smiled. The faint scar above her eyebrow, the way she twirled the ring on her pinky finger when lost in thought. Each tick, each habit, became scripture.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he didn't type. Didn't zoom. Just watched. There was an intimacy in stillness, in knowing you could do more but choosing not to—yet.
He had crossed into her kingdom. Not with a sword. But with patience. Now he knew where she lived, how she loved, what she longed for in the dark.
Tomorrow, he would make a move. But tonight?
Tonight he let himself fall a little deeper.
Into her world.
Into her rhythm.
Into the storm she never saw coming.