Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the studio, reflecting off the polished floor as camera shutters clicked in rapid rhythm. Amelia Lyrax stood in front of the lens, her posture poised and graceful—but her mind? A complete mess.
It had been a day since that encounter.
She hadn't told anyone. Who would believe her, anyway? That a well-dressed stranger had somehow broken into her apartment, hidden in her wardrobe like it was the most normal thing in the world, and then left with cryptic words and an infuriating smirk?
"We'll be seeing each other again."
The memory made her lips press into a tight line as she shifted poses for the next shot. She couldn't stop thinking about him—not in a romantic way, absolutely not. It was more like… unease. Wariness. That kind of unsettling curiosity that came with a side of irritation. He was arrogant, too smooth for someone who'd just been caught trespassing. And worst of all—he didn't seem the least bit sorry.
"All right, Amelia, take five!" the photographer called.
She nodded quickly and stepped off the set, heading toward the dressing area. The lights were too warm, the room too loud. Or maybe it was just her own thoughts pressing in again. Maybe it was the echo of his voice, replaying itself like a broken record.
We'll be seeing each other again.
She muttered under her breath, "I sure as hell hope not."
Night had fallen by the time Christian stepped onto his balcony, overlooking the estate's sprawling grounds. The cool breeze did little to calm the fire building inside him. His suit jacket fluttered slightly as he leaned against the railing, eyes fixed on the city lights far below.
He had everything he needed now—the villa address, her daily schedule, confirmation she lived alone.
It was almost too easy.
Like fate had handed her over.
"She's not like the others," he muttered, watching the stars flicker above. "She doesn't scare easily. Doesn't bend."
And that? That made him want her even more.
Still, just because she was different didn't mean she could run. If anything, it meant she needed to learn—gently, if he had to, but firmly—who held the reins.
He turned and walked back inside, his footsteps echoing through the high-ceilinged halls. His phone was already in hand by the time he reached his study.
He dialed the number from memory.
"Get the car ready," he said, voice calm but decisive.
A pause.
"To the Ryuko Villa."