The morning sunlight streamed through the high glass windows of Darren's mansion, slicing the air into golden shards. Somewhere down the hall, a clock ticked softly, counting down to something Darren couldn't quite name.
He'd been awake for hours—his sleep fractured by shadows he couldn't escape. He had thrown himself into work before dawn, running calls, reviewing contracts, calculating risk. Numbers. Control. Order. The things that made sense.
Until she appeared.
The sound of soft footsteps descending the grand staircase pulled his attention away from his assistant Carlos's report. He didn't look at first—he didn't need to. He could feel her presence before he saw her, the way one feels a change in temperature before a storm breaks.
Then he turned.
And the world tilted.
Ophelia.
