(First Person POV )
Something was wrong.
I didn't know how or when, but something in the air had changed.
It wasn't the temperature — the apartment was always slightly too cold, the kind of sterile chill you'd expect from someone like Leonardo Ivankov. The man practically exhaled control. But lately, even the walls felt watchful.
I caught him looking at me again this morning. Not in the usual way — not with that distracted half-interest he showed when politeness demanded he acknowledge my existence — but really looking.
Like I was a puzzle he'd almost solved.
Every nerve in my body buzzed.
I stirred my tea too hard, spilling a little onto the countertop. "You're up early," I said, my voice lighter than I felt.
He didn't look away. "Couldn't sleep."
The words were harmless, but the way he said them wasn't. His tone carried weight, quiet and deliberate, the kind that made people confess things without realizing it.
I smiled anyway. "Guess we're both insomniacs."
He didn't smile back. "Guess so."
I turned away, pretending to be busy with breakfast, but my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Later, when he went out for whatever Alpha Kings do at ungodly hours, I went to clean up the living room.
And that's when I saw it.
My notebook.
Right where I didn't leave it.
I froze.
The leather cover had been nudged slightly to the right, the ribbon marker sticking out farther than before. Someone had touched it.
No—he had touched it.
My pulse slammed in my ears. I flipped through the pages, searching for signs, for anything that would confirm my fear. A faint smudge near the top corner. The tiniest crease where none had been before.
He read it.
The world tilted.
For a few seconds, I couldn't breathe. The air was thick with the faint trace of his scent — cedar and power, calm and wild — seeping from the pages like an accusation.
My secret wasn't a secret anymore.
He knew.
Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to piece together who I used to be.
The woman who lived in this body before me — she wasn't someone worth remembering. A shadow clinging to the edge of obsession. A stalker.
And now he thought that was still me.
"Oh God," I whispered, pressing a trembling hand over my mouth.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent weeks convincing myself I could start over — eat healthy, rebuild this body, build a garden, breathe again — only for my past, her past, to drag me down like an anchor.
I couldn't blame him for being suspicious. If I were him, I'd think I was dangerous too.
That night, dinner was quiet. Too quiet.
He asked questions — simple ones at first.
"How long have you lived in the city?"
I gave him a vague smile. "Long enough to get lost less often."
"Where did you stay before?"
"Oh… nowhere worth mentioning."
He hummed, noncommittal. But his eyes never left me.
Every word felt like walking through a minefield. One wrong step, and the entire lie I'd built — fragile as glass — would shatter.
When I finally looked up, he was still watching me, elbows on the table, expression unreadable.
"What?" I asked, forcing a laugh. "You're staring like I've got food on my face."
He leaned back slowly, lips curving. "Maybe I'm just curious."
"About?"
"You."
My throat went dry. "There's nothing interesting about me."
"I doubt that."
He said it casually, but there was something in his tone that felt like a promise. Or a warning.
Maybe both.
After dinner, I escaped to my room — my temporary room — and locked the door.
The silence pressed in around me. My reflection in the mirror looked back with wide, haunted eyes.
This face… it wasn't what it used to be. The weight was gone, the skin had healed, and the pimples had faded to faint scars. For the first time, I looked almost normal. Almost pretty.
But that didn't matter now.
Because if Leonardo Ivankov truly suspected who I was — who this body used to be — then beauty wouldn't save me. Nothing would.
I sank onto the bed and covered my face with my hands.
What was I supposed to do? Run? Again?
But where?
This was the only place I'd felt safe since waking up in this world.
I let out a shaky laugh. "Safe," I muttered to the empty room. "Right."
The Alpha King's scent lingered faintly even here — calm, clean, edged with authority. I hated that my heartbeat reacted to it, that some primal part of me wanted to curl closer instead of farther away.
My body was traitorous. My instincts even more so.
And deep down, buried under the fear, a darker thought whispered:What if he already knows everything… and still lets me stay?
That terrified me more than anything.
The next morning, he didn't go to his office.
He stayed.
Everywhere I turned, he seemed to be there. When I washed the dishes, he appeared behind me to reach for a glass. When I tried to read in the corner, he passed by, pausing just long enough for our eyes to meet.
It wasn't coincidence.
It was a test.
A silent game between predator and prey — except I wasn't sure which one I was anymore.
By the third time our hands brushed accidentally, I felt my composure cracking. The air between us was thick, charged. My pheromones were slipping, uncontrolled.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
But he didn't comment. He just looked at me, quiet and knowing, and said softly, "You should be careful with your scent. It gives away more than you think."
My breath hitched. "Sorry."
He smiled faintly. "Don't be."
Then he walked away, leaving my heart racing and my body trembling with confusion.
That night, I didn't sleep. Again.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, every shadow a question, every sound a threat.
He knew.
And soon, he'd confront me.
I didn't know what would happen when he did — if he'd throw me out, expose me, or worse… keep me.
But one thing was certain.
Whatever fragile peace existed between us was about to break.
And this time, I wasn't sure if I wanted to run.