POV: Alexandra Vaughn)
The morning after the dinner at Damian and Lydia's townhouse, my reflection looked like someone I didn't recognize.
I'd faced murderers, billionaires, and politicians who thought they could buy their way out of anything, but nothing, I repeat, nothing terrified me like my own reflection now.
Because I'd done something unforgivable, not in action, not yet, but in thought, and the guilt was beginning to poison everything.
My hands trembled slightly as I poured coffee. I didn't even like coffee; I just needed something to do. The steam fogged the glass, blurring the skyline beyond my window, and for a second, I wished I could blur myself out too.
Damian's message still sat in my phone.
We shouldn't have done this.
I'd read it a hundred times. Deleted it. Then undeleted it. Then memorized every word like a confession.
We hadn't even kissed. That was the worst part, the hunger lived in the spaces between what we didn't do.
The look in his eyes that night at his penthouse, the ache there, it was enough to destroy me. And when he touched my wrist before I left, so brief it could've been accidental… it didn't feel like an accident.
"Damn you, Damian Cross," I muttered under my breath, dropping the mug into the sink.
But the truth? I didn't damn him.
I damned myself.
That afternoon, I tried to bury myself in work. A high-profile fraud case. My element. My fortress.
Except I couldn't focus. Every time I stood before the jury, all I saw were his eyes, the ones that looked like they'd memorized me.
During recess, Noah poked his head into my office. "You've been off today. Is everything okay?"
I straightened the stack of files on my desk, deliberately avoiding his gaze. "Fine."
He hesitated. "Lydia called earlier. Said she wanted to talk."
My heart stuttered. "About what?"
He shrugged. "Didn't say. Just sounded… off."
Of course she did, because Lydia was smart, smarter than she let people believe. She'd start connecting dots soon if I didn't find a way to make her stop looking.
I picked up my phone and dialed her.
"Lyd," I said, when she answered, too brightly. "You called?"
A pause. Then her voice, soft, hesitant. "Yeah. I just… wanted to hear your voice."
That was worse than suspicion, that was trust.
My throat tightened. "Everything okay?"
She hesitated. "I don't know. Damian's been different lately. Distant. You've noticed it too, right?"
Every word twisted like glass in my chest.
She wasn't accusing me. She was asking me for help.
"Maybe he's stressed," I said carefully. "The company, the investors.."
"I thought that too. But last night… he looked at me like I was a stranger."
Her voice cracked, and I felt it in my bones. Because I knew that look. I'd caused it.
"Lyd," I whispered. "Don't overthink it. You two love each other. You'll figure it out."
"I hope so," she murmured. "Because sometimes, I feel like there's a part of him I'll never reach."
I closed my eyes, because that part was mine.
When the call ended, I sat at my desk in silence. The city outside buzzed with life, and I sat there feeling like a ghost.
The woman who never lost was losing herself.
That evening, Damian texted.
Damian: We need to talk.
I almost ignored it. Almost.
Instead, I found myself standing outside his penthouse an hour later, pulse hammering, every part of me screaming don't go in.
He opened the door before I could knock.
"Alex," he said quietly. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. There was exhaustion in his eyes, and something else, something raw.
"This is a mistake," I said immediately.
"I know."
"Then why did you text me?"
He looked at me for a long time before answering. "Because pretending nothing's happening doesn't make it true."
I stepped inside before I could stop myself. The city lights spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting us both in silver.
He poured two glasses of whiskey, handed me one. I didn't drink. Neither did he.
"Lydia's starting to suspect," he said finally.
My stomach turned. "What did you tell her?"
"Nothing." He set the glass down. "Because I don't even know what to tell myself."
The silence stretched between us, thick and dangerous.
"You love her," I said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm supposed to," he whispered. "But every time I look at her, I see you."
I stopped breathing.
He took a step closer, voice low. "Tell me you don't feel it too."
I wanted to lie. God, I wanted to.
But then his hand brushed mine, and every wall I'd built in thirty-two years cracked.
"I feel it," I whispered. "And I hate that I do."
For a long moment, we just stood there, two people suspended in something that shouldn't exist.
Then I pulled away. "We can't do this. She's my best friend."
He exhaled sharply. "And you're the only person who makes me feel alive."
His words hit harder than any verdict.
I turned, walked to the door, and said without looking back, "If we don't stop this now, we'll destroy her."
"Maybe we already have," he murmured.
I left before he could see the tears.
Back home, I stood in the dark, replaying every word. Every glance. Every lie.
I thought I'd feel relieved walking away. Instead, I felt emptier than ever.
I opened my phone. Lydia's messages were there: old photos, old laughter, the life before all this.
Then a new message appeared.
Lydia : Found something today. Can we talk tomorrow?
My heart stopped.
I stared at the screen, the words burning. Found something.
The bracelet. The email. The way he looked at me.
It could be anything. Or everything.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that tomorrow might be the day it all came crashing down.