Talia
Time stopped.
The busy, quiet restaurant, the clink of silverware, the distant sound of the string quartet—all of it faded away. There was only the man in the shadows and the thirty yards of empty space between them.
Talia's hand, which held the champagne flute, froze mid-air.
It was him. The man from the market.
But this was not the man in the hoodie, with a cap hiding his face, looking lost and haunted. This was... a different person entirely.
He was in control. The dark-wood alcove he sat in was not just a table; it felt like a throne. The low, golden light brought his face into focus, highlighting his chiseled cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw as if they were carved from marble. He wasn't at the restaurant; he dominated it. He looked like a king living in self-imposed exile.
And he was looking at her.
His icy-blue eyes were not sad. Not this time. They were... intense. They were possessive. The gaze was so direct and focused that she felt it physically—a cold, electric shock that raced down her spine.
He knew.
That thought hit her. He... recognized her.
A wave of heat and confusion rushed up her neck. She was the girl who had bumped into him, smelling of spices, her hair messy, her face worn with exhaustion. Now... he saw her like this. In silk. In his world.
She should have felt proud. Instead, she felt... exposed. Like a butterfly pinned to a board.
She broke the gaze first. She had to.
With a sharp, involuntary gasp, she looked away, her heart racing wildly against her ribs. She lowered her gaze to the table, her hand shaking so much that the champagne in her flute vibrated.
"Talia?"
Elara's voice, full of concern, broke the spell. "Tali, Matok? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I... I..." Talia tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled squeak. "No. I... I just... thought I recognized someone." She took a shaky sip of champagne. It tasted like ash. "But... it's not him. Just... just a chill."
"A chill?" Elara frowned, clearly not convinced. She scanned the room, looking over the tables. "Who? That man in the Brioni suit by the window? He looks like a minister..."
"No, Auntie," Talia said, her voice too high. "It's no one. Really. I'm... I'm just... the champagne... it's... it's strong."
She couldn't help it. She had to look back. She had to know if he was still watching, if that intense gaze was real.
She lifted her head, her eyes darting back to the dark alcove, filled with fear.
It was empty.
A glass of dark liquid sat on the table, a 100-pound note beside it. But the man... was gone. He hadn't just left. He had vanished. As if he'd never been there at all.
Talia's stomach dropped, a dizzy feeling of disappointment. It was sharp and cold, making her angry at herself.
"He's... gone," she whispered, her voice hollow.
"Who's gone?" Elara asked, now completely confused.
"No one," Talia said, shaking her head. "I'm... I'm just... seeing things. I think I'm still tired."
But as she turned back to her aunt, her mind was racing. Who was he? The haunted man from the market. The man from the glass tower. A man who could show up and disappear like a ghost. And a man who had looked at her like... like he knew her.
Jadon
He stood in the elevator, the private black-marble one that led from his alcove directly to his personal garage.
His hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists.
She had seen him. She had recognized him.
He had watched her. He had seen the blush rise on her neck. He had noticed how her hand trembled. He had seen her, in that moment, as a woman—vibrant, beautiful, and vulnerable.
And then... she had looked away.
The moment she broke the gaze, his control shattered. He couldn't stay in that room. He couldn't just sit there, a shadowy figure, watching his "creation" celebrate. Because the feeling in his chest... it wasn't only guilt. It wasn't just obsession.
It was pride.
He was proud of that smile. He was proud of that glow. He had created that.
And he knew that was the most dangerous, toxic, possessive thought he had ever had.
He had to escape. He needed to put space between himself and this... feeling.
He got into the Audi, staring at his reflection—a dark, angry stranger in the tinted glass. He was supposed to be in exile, healing from a betrayal. Instead, he was... what? Stalking?
He needed to get a grip. He had "fixed" her problem. His atonement was done. He should be able to walk away. He should be able to return to his cold, sterile penthouse and... forget her.
But as he sat in the dark, silent car, the image of her in that green silk dress, her eyes meeting his, was burned into his mind.
He couldn't. He couldn't let her go.
He had created this "miracle." He had paid for her freedom. He had, in effect, put her into this beautiful, gilded cage.
And the man who builds the cage... holds the only key.
He was no longer just a bystander. He was, he admitted to himself, the patron. And a patron always watches his investment.
He picked up the dark console phone, the "local" one. He dialed Kael.
"Sir."
"They're at Astra. The Levine party. On the mezzanine."
There was a brief pause. Kael was too professional to ask how Jadon knew. "Understood, sir."
"I want surveillance," Jadon ordered, his voice a low, cold growl. "A full, 24/7, Level 10 team. The best you have. The ones who go unnoticed."
"...Surveillance, sir? On... the woman?" Kael's voice held genuine surprise for the first time. "Is she... a threat?"
Jadon thought of her smile and the jolt he'd felt when their gazes locked.
"She is," he said, his voice flat. "To... everything. I want to know where she goes. I want to know who she talks to. I want to know when she breathes. And Kael?"
"Sir?"
"She is never to know. No one can. This... is the most important file we have."
"Understood, Mr. Asher."
The line clicked.
Jadon sat in the dark, his heart pounding a heavy, guilty rhythm. He had just, officially, crossed a line. He was no longer just the man who had wronged her.
He was now the man who was actively and secretly controlling her.