Aurora barely slept.
Even after she locked her bedroom door. Even after she pulled the heavy drapes shut, shrouding herself in darkness. Even after she told herself over and over again that he was gone.
That he wasn't watching.
That he wasn't waiting.
But the moment she closed her eyes, she saw him.
The sharp angles of his face, the way the streetlights carved shadows along his jaw. The way his voice had slipped into her bones, soft yet merciless.
You've been looking over your shoulder all day.
And yet, I didn't see you.
I didn't want you to.
She swallowed hard, pressing her forehead against her knees as she curled into herself beneath the covers.
She should tell someone.
She should do something.
But what would she say?
That a stranger had called her by name? That he had followed her? That he had looked at her like he already knew what she would taste like on his tongue?
She knew how that would end.
She would be dismissed. Laughed at.
Her father would say she was being dramatic. That she should stop wasting his time.
And her mother...
Aurora's fingers dug into the blankets.
Her mother would barely look at her at all.
A hollow ache settled in her chest, sharp and unyielding.
It was always like this.
She had no one.
No one except herself.
So, she took a breath, forcing the shudder out of her lungs.
And she did what she had always done.
She buried it.
---
Lucian sat on his bike across the street from the Sinclair estate, one foot propped against the curb, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
He hadn't smoked in years.
Not since he was younger. Not since the habit had been beaten out of him by something sharper than fists.
But tonight, he needed the distraction.
He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deep, the acrid burn settling in his lungs before he exhaled.
The mansion was quiet.
No movement. No signs of life beyond the warm glow bleeding through the windows.
He should leave.
He had seen what he came to see.
He had gotten close enough to touch.
But he stayed.
Because she was still awake.
He knew it.
He could feel it.
The same way he could feel the way she had shaken when he had touched her wrist. The way she had shoved him away, as if she could keep him at a distance.
He exhaled again, watching the smoke curl into the night.
She thought she could fight it.
Fight him.
It was almost amusing.
Almost.
Because if there was one thing Lucian Vale never did—it was lose.
---
By the time Aurora dragged herself out of bed the next morning, exhaustion clung to her like a second skin.
Her body ached. Her head throbbed.
But she felt him less.
Like his presence had finally started to slip beneath her skin, becoming a part of her.
Like he wasn't just a threat.
He was inevitable.
She inhaled sharply, shoving the thought away as she reached for her bag.
Her hands were steady as she opened her bedroom door.
But the moment she stepped into the hallway, she knew.
Something was wrong.
It was too quiet.
Not in the peaceful way, but in the way that prickled against her spine.
She moved carefully, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as she made her way downstairs.
And then—
"Aurora."
She stopped.
Her father stood at the bottom of the staircase, his gaze sharp. Calculating.
Behind him, her mother sat in the parlor, staring at nothing, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Aurora swallowed. "Yes?"
Richard's lips curled, but there was no warmth. Only expectation.
"Come here."
Her stomach twisted.
She knew that tone.
Knew that whatever this was—it wasn't good.
Slowly, she stepped down, each movement precise, careful, controlled.
She kept her expression blank, her shoulders relaxed.
She had learned long ago that fear made it worse.
When she reached him, he didn't move.
Didn't say anything.
Just studied her.
Like he could see something that wasn't there.
Or something that was.
Finally, he spoke. "I got a call last night."
Aurora forced her breathing to remain steady. "From who?"
His fingers flexed. "That doesn't matter."
A lie.
It did matter.
Because if it was about her, then it could only be one of two things—
Either she had done something wrong.
Or someone had done something for her.
She thought of him.
The way he had looked at her.
The way he had spoken to her, so sure that she would come to know him.
Was it possible—?
No.
He wouldn't have called.
He wouldn't have warned.
Whoever he was, he wasn't a man who asked permission.
Her fingers curled into her palm. "What did they say?"
Richard's jaw tightened. "That someone was asking about you."
The air in her lungs turned to stone.
He knew.
Maybe not everything. Maybe not enough.
But he knew something.
His eyes darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
Aurora forced herself to meet his gaze, refusing to let the panic clawing up her throat show on her face.
"No."
A beat of silence.
Then another.
And then—
A slow, satisfied smile.
Richard reached out, smoothing her hair away from her face, his touch gentle.
Loving.
She didn't flinch.
She never did.
"You're a good girl," he murmured.
She hated that word.
Hated the way it coiled around her throat, choking her with its weight.
But she didn't react.
She just nodded, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
She played the part.
Just like she always had.
But inside—
Inside, something cracked.
Because someone was asking about her.
And if her father knew that—
Then he did too.
And the game had already begun.