The G-Wagon's engine provided the only soundtrack to our drive home, a low mechanical purr occasionally interrupted by wind pressing against the darkened windows. I stayed angled toward Elijah, studying the way passing streetlights painted temporary brightness across his features before releasing him back to shadow. He looked infuriatingly composed, as always. Meanwhile, my pulse refused to settle, that familiar sensation he triggered without even trying.
As we approached the estate gates, part of me wished the road would stretch endlessly ahead. But the wrought iron barriers parted, revealing the mansion in all its ostentatious glory—marble columns, sweeping archways, windows glowing against the lake's obsidian surface.
I unbuckled and leaned across the console, capturing his mouth with mine. He responded with that trademark confidence, no hesitation, no uncertainty.
"Be careful going home," I murmured against his lips.
That smirk appeared, the one that always felt aimed directly at something vital inside me. He climbed out and circled the vehicle with measured grace, opening my door like we were characters in some vintage film. I stepped onto the gravel drive, heels clicking softly, and he pulled me into an embrace that smelled of expensive cologne and something uniquely him. For those few seconds, nothing else registered.
Then he released me, returned to the driver's seat, and gave me one final look—God, the intensity of it—before driving away, taillights fading into darkness.
I turned toward the house, heart still racing.
---
The mansion's interior hummed with controlled activity despite the hour. Household staff waited near the entrance, acknowledging my arrival with synchronized bows. Overhead chandeliers scattered amber light across marble floors while ancestral portraits observed from their ornate frames, expressions permanently frozen in judgment.
I'd barely reached the staircase when her voice stopped me.
"Chloe."
My hand tightened on the banister. Mother stood in the hallway, backlit by wall sconces. Viola Halvern wore a pale silk nightgown, her hair partially escaped from its pins, lips compressed into something resembling a smile but fundamentally wasn't.
"Why ignore your phone?" Her tone carried that particular exhausted control she'd perfected over years. "Do you understand what time you returned? Again?"
"Mother, please." I exhaled, continuing upward.
"Are you still involved with that boy?"
The question cracked through the air like a whip. I stopped, halfway turned, irritation rising.
"Stop interrogating me. Stop monitoring every aspect of my existence. I'm an adult, not some child requiring supervision."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm concerned for your safety, Chloe. Especially now. Lucian Freeman escaped custody. The media calls him a returned nightmare. You require proper security."
I released a sharp laugh. "So your security personnel can report my every movement back to you? No. Elijah protects me adequately."
Viola's composure cracked momentarily, lips parting as if to respond, but only anger sharpened her expression. "What exactly do you see in him?"
I raised both hands in exaggerated surrender, wrists bent, palms upward, face tilted with deliberate sass. Then I turned and continued climbing, heels punctuating each step.
Behind me, silence—except for that rhythmic clicking.
I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I already knew what expression she wore.
---
She ended up in the home theater, solitary figure sprawled across leather seating, wine glass balanced in her fingers. The massive screen glowed with muted images from some forgotten film she wasn't actually watching. Each sip deepened the shadows beneath her eyes.
Then came another engine's growl.
Outside, gravel crunched under expensive tires as a sleek Maserati arrived. Viola's unfocused gaze tracked the sound through instinct more than attention. The door opened, and William Halvern emerged. Fifty years old but maintaining that devastating handsomeness wealthy men seemed to purchase along with their suits. His jacket hung open, tie loosened.
From the passenger side came a much younger woman, dark hair cascading down her back, laughter spilling into the night air.
"This place is incredible," the girl said as William guided her inside, hand possessive around her waist.
Staff materialized instantly, but William's glare dismissed them. He pressed the woman against the wall, mouth claiming hers hungrily. Their sounds filled the hallway, echoing through the mansion like a violation.
Viola remained frozen in the theater's darkness. She could see them clearly enough—her husband's hands moving without shame, hear his low chuckle, the wet sounds of their kissing.
*Once I believed marrying him represented life's pinnacle achievement,* she thought bitterly. *Now I understand better. William Halvern is just another sociopathic playboy, identical to his father Theodore.*
The name alone soured her stomach. She drained her glass.
Meanwhile, William lifted the girl, her legs wrapping around his waist, kissing her as if indulgence were his birthright.
"Isn't this dangerous?" the girl whispered between breaths. "Your wife, your daughter—"
"I don't care," William murmured, teeth grazing her jaw. "I've endured enough stress from these media scandals. Azaqor killer this, Halvern conspiracies that. Let them suffocate on it. I need something genuine. Hell, the thought of Viola watching right now would only enhance this."
Viola flinched, gripping the armrest until her knuckles whitened. Each sound—his moans, the girl's laughter—stabbed through her accumulated bitterness.
She poured another drink.
---
By dawn, Crestwood's skyline burned with steel and glass. At its heart stood the Halvern Consortium's newest achievement: the artificial intelligence research facility. All chrome angles, transparent walls, and a humming labyrinth of machinery whispering promises of the future.
Inside, rows of robots stood like dormant soldiers, their limbs jointed with polished alloy, optical sensors dark until awakened by code.
Elijah stood among them, sleeves rolled up, directing a small engineering team through diagnostics. Sparks flickered as one humanoid prototype raised its arm, gears whirring, mimicking human movement with unsettling precision.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
Viola entered.
She'd dressed with calculated perfection: tailored ivory blouse with pearl buttons, high-waisted midnight silk trousers, diamond earrings catching the facility's cold white light. The uniform of someone born to old money who refused to let anyone forget.
"Leave us," she told the engineers, voice smooth but absolute.
They exchanged quick glances before obeying, footsteps fading into distant corridors.
Elijah turned, posture relaxed but alert. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Halvern?"
Her jaw tightened. "I'll speak plainly. Stay away from my daughter. The situation isn't safe. Chloe needs her family, not some reckless boy playing protector."
Elijah's gaze held hers, calm, respectful—but immovable. "With respect, ma'am, I love Chloe. And she loves me. It's her choice who provides her comfort. I hope her mother would respect that."
The words struck like physical blows. Viola's hand twitched. Rage coiled in her chest—how dare he address her this way? She raised her hand to strike him.
But he caught her wrist mid-arc.
For one suspended heartbeat, silence.
Then that smirk. God, that infuriating smirk—lips tilting just enough to ignite fury. The expression of a young man who knew himself untouchable.
He drew her closer, near enough that his breath touched her ear.
"Love," he whispered, low and dangerous, "is something you'll never understand. Not when even your husband no longer offers it to you."
Her body stiffened. Eyes widened. How could he possibly know?
"Chloe told me," Elijah breathed, lips nearly brushing her skin.
A shiver tore through her. She hated it—hated the heat rushing to her face, the erratic hammering in her chest. She tried pulling back, but his presence clung like smoke.
"Stop—" she began.
But Elijah's mouth crashed against hers.
It was brutal, intoxicating. His hands gripped her waist, slid lower, fingers pressing into forbidden territory. His lips claimed hers, parted them, dragged her into a rhythm she couldn't resist.
Around them, something invisible stirred. A shimmer in the air, like heat waves rising from summer pavement. Threads of luminescence—rose-gold and electric white—began spiraling up from Viola's skin, particularly where his hands touched her. The radiance pulsed in time with her racing heartbeat, swirling upward in delicate tendrils that danced and twisted like living smoke.
The glowing streams coiled around Elijah's head, forming a corona of captured light. The threads dissolved into him at his temples, the base of his skull, the center of his forehead. Each tendril that made contact caused a subtle brightening in his eyes, a sharpening of his already intense presence. The energy moved with hypnotic fluidity, rising from her in waves of shimmering warmth and disappearing into him like water absorbed by parched earth.
Neither of them noticed. They remained locked in the kiss, oblivious to the luminous exchange happening between their bodies, the visible manifestation of something primal being transferred from one to the other.
Her knees weakened, breath faltering. She wanted to push him away, yet her body betrayed her, answering the kiss with equal hunger.
The glowing threads intensified, spiraling faster, brighter, pulsing with increasing urgency.
When they finally broke apart, her lips throbbed, her mind a blur. The luminous energy faded as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only the sterile white light of the facility.
Elijah's voice was rough, unwavering. "I've always wanted you. William will never love you. But I can. I will. Be mine."
Her breath shuddered. "What about Chloe?"
"She doesn't need to know." His hand cupped her face, eyes boring into hers. "This stays between us. Our secret."
"It's wrong," Viola whispered. Her voice shook, half-plea, half-confession. "I shouldn't—"
His hands tightened around her waist. "It's okay."
Their eyes locked, tension sparking into something darker. Viola's lips parted, not in refusal now, but in silent surrender.
---
Night again. The penthouse carried the aroma of garlic and rosemary. I stood in the kitchen, stirring pasta, humming absently to myself. When Elijah walked in, I turned immediately, smile forming automatically.
He looked exhausted, shoulders heavy, tie crooked.
I crossed the space, kissed him lightly on the lips. "You look more tired than usual."
"Long shift," he answered, removing his shoes. His tone was casual, but something in his eyes flickered.
I leaned closer, and there it was—a faint scent, sweet, intoxicating, undeniably feminine. Perfume. It clung to him like a ghost. My mind jolted with recognition, though the thought slipped away before I could grasp it.
I frowned.
Elijah caught the expression instantly. "How's your father managing the strikes?" he asked, perhaps too quickly.
The subject change worked. I sighed, returning attention to the stove. "He's managing. But investors have gone quiet. Too quiet. They've been absent from board meetings. It suggests distance, disloyalty. Bad indicators."
Elijah came up behind me, his hand covering mine. "It's okay. I'm here. You're not alone."
I let myself breathe. His presence felt solid, reassuring, even if shadows lingered at the edges.
"Did Aubrey contact you again?" he asked.
"Yes. She texted. She wants to arrange a meeting with the other survivors. Somewhere in Crestwood."
"I'll accompany you." His voice carried absolute finality.
I kissed his cheek. "Then go shower. You need it."
He smiled faintly, turning away.
I watched him walk toward the bedroom. And just for a split second, as his back faced me, I saw it: a flicker of something guilty in his expression, twisted into determination as quickly as it appeared. A shadow, gone in an instant.
I blinked, almost doubting myself.
Then the water began running in the distance, and the kitchen filled with the hiss of simmering pasta, the faint heartbeat of our fragile normalcy.