POV: Damian Cross
I used to believe that everything in life was transactional: time for power, risk for reward, loyalty for silence.
Then I met Alexandra Vaughn.
And suddenly, nothing about control made sense anymore.
When Lydia called that morning, her voice was light, filled with the kind of joy I used to envy in other people.
"Dinner at my place tonight," she chirped. "Alex's coming too. We'll plan the wedding menu!"
The mention of Alexandra's name did something to me, a shift so subtle it was almost imperceptible, but it was there. Like a wire tightening somewhere in my chest.
"Of course," I said evenly, the lie smooth from years of practice. "I'll be there."
She giggled. "You sound thrilled."
"I am," I murmured.
But I wasn't.
I was restless. Caged. Ever since that meeting in my office, the one where I said too much and she didn't walk away, I hadn't slept right. Her eyes haunted me. The restraint in her voice. The battle she was clearly losing against herself.
I wasn't supposed to want her, but wanting her had become my favorite sin.
Lydia's apartment smelled like vanilla and lilies, her signature scent. She'd spent all day perfecting the dinner table: candles, roses, gold-trimmed plates. She looked radiant.
And then Alexandra walked in.
Dark green dress. Hair pinned in a low twist. Every inch of her screamed control, except her eyes. They met mine for a second too long.
Lydia didn't notice. She never did.
"Wine?" she asked cheerfully, pouring a glass for each of us. "Let's toast; to new beginnings!"
"To new beginnings," Alexandra echoed, her voice steady but her fingers tight around the glass stem.
I forced myself to play my part: the attentive fiancé. I listened to Lydia talk about florists and cake tastings, nodding in all the right places. But every time Alexandra spoke, I couldn't look away. The precision in her words. The faint tremor she tried to hide.
It wasn't love. Not the kind Lydia thought she had with me. It was something darker, a fascination that bordered on obsession.
When Lydia stepped into the kitchen, Alexandra's voice broke the silence.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," she whispered.
"And how should I look at you?"
"Like you're not thinking about something we'll both regret."
I leaned in slightly. "I'm already thinking about it."
Her breath hitched. Then she turned away just as Lydia returned, smiling and oblivious.
The rest of the evening blurred into a performance: laughter, planning, pretending.
But beneath it all, the tension was a pulse that wouldn't die.
At one point, Lydia excused herself to take a call. The door clicked shut.
Alexandra's eyes met mine again, defiant this time, but trembling at the edges.
"You need to stop this," she said quietly.
"Do I?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still here?"
She didn't answer.
Because we both knew the truth; she wasn't staying for Lydia. She was staying for me.
And the worst part?
I wanted her to.
When I got home that night, I didn't turn on the lights.
The city glowed through the glass, silver and distant, like something I'd already lost. I poured myself a drink, staring at the reflection of a man I barely recognized.
A man who was supposed to be engaged to the kindest woman he'd ever known.
A man who couldn't stop thinking about her best friend.
I told myself this was temporary. That I could control it. That I could keep the fire from spreading.
But deep down, I already knew the moment Alexandra Vaughn walked into my life, control stopped existing.