The sun filtered through sheer curtains, casting golden lines across Grace's bare skin as she stirred. Her lashes fluttered, heavy with the remnants of wine and sleep. A slow breath escaped her lips as she rolled onto her back, blinking into the morning light.
But something felt off.
She couldn't name it immediately, only that the room didn't feel quite like hers. The air was heavier than usual, the silence too full, as if it had held breath all night. A scent lingered faintly in the air. Not her jasmine perfume, not the floral soap she used. Something else. Something masculine. Musk and oak. Raw and uninvited.
Her pulse quickened.
She sat up abruptly, the silky robe clinging to her legs. The sheets around her were neatly pulled. Too neatly. Grace never made her bed while half-drunk. She always slept tangled in a mess of linen and dreams.
Her eyes swept the room.
The dress from last night lay in the same spot where she'd dropped it. Her heels still near the door. Nothing was stolen. Nothing moved. But everything felt… touched. Disturbed in a way that didn't leave fingerprints, only shadows.
She slid off the bed and padded barefoot to the door, locking it instinctively. Then she turned to her bedroom with a growing sense of dread.
"Someone was here," she whispered, voice almost inaudible to herself.
A chill ran down her spine.
Grace began tearing through the room, checking drawers, the closet, and under the bed. Her hands trembled as she scanned every inch for signs of intrusion. Nothing. No broken windows. No open doors. But the feeling clung to her skin like sweat.
She moved to her vanity, running a finger along the edge. Stopped.
Her favorite lipstick, her signature red, was slightly twisted up. Not capped all the way. She never left it like that. Her throat tightened.
Across the city, in a luxury apartment where the windows never opened and the curtains never moved, Silas Vale sat perfectly still. One screen showed Grace frantically pulling her covers, lifting the edge of the mattress, tossing aside pillows with wide, darting eyes.
He watched her like a lover watches his muse.
Her suspicion thrilled him. Not because she knew, but because she didn't. She felt him, yes. She felt the residue of his presence like a ghost's kiss. But she couldn't prove it. Not yet.
And that was where the power lived.
She looked beautiful in panic.
The way her chest heaved beneath the robe, the way her long black hair stuck to her temples. Those storm-gray eyes of hers, now flashing with uncertainty—were still just as enchanting. Even more so when laced with fear. Her vulnerability was intoxicating.
He leaned forward slightly, fingers tapping the desk rhythmically. Watching her feel him without seeing him was more intimate than anything else. It was art. She was art. And he was the only audience that mattered.
Grace eventually stopped, leaning against the edge of her bed. Her breath came in uneven pulls. She wasn't sure if it was real or imagined. Maybe the wine had messed with her head. Maybe she had dreamt it all. But her instincts screamed something else.
From behind the screen, he whispered to the woman who couldn't hear him.
"You're not crazy, Grace. You're just mine."
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd held, replaying every second of the footage. Her scent still lingered on his fingers, her world now nestled within his.
He hadn't taken anything. Not yet. But he'd already stolen everything