Elias's heart nearly exploded. It froze. It hammered in his chest.
He turned, barely breathing.
And there she was.
A woman. His woman. The one he had taken time to describe.
Standing in the dim light of his penthouse, she appeared exactly as he had written her. Long, dark waves swept down her back, eyes like a storm—sharp, knowing, impossible to ignore. She was real. Too real.
She smiled. "Hello, Elias."
He staggered back, gripping the couch. "What the hell–?"
Her lips curled slightly, amused. "You called me. You made me. I am here because of you."
He tried to speak, but his throat refused to work. She took a step closer.
He took a step back.
His knees buckled.
Yeah, he was definitely hearing things. Seeing things. He had to be drunk.
And then–
Everything. Went. Black.
The next morning, Elias woke up with a headache the size of a mountain.
Groaning, he rubbed his temples. His mouth tasted like regret and last night's whiskey. The hangover was brutal. Damn, his head was pounding. This lifestyle was definitely the one he had wished for.
Wait… was it just a hangover? Something felt off.
He tried piecing things together. The club. The book. The ink glowing. Yes, the book. He had held the book last night.
And then—
He remembered.
Panic crawled up his spine as he shot up in bed. He wasn't alone.
Someone was there.
Kneeling.
Smiling.
At him.
His soul almost left his body.
He yelped, scrambling back so fast he nearly fell off the bed. "What the–?!"
She giggled. Giggled.
"Good morning," she said, tilting her head.
He pressed a hand to his chest, gasping like a man who had just seen God. "HOLY MOTHER COW OF THE MASSES, HOW YOU–WHAT–HOW–"
She blinked, still smiling. "You fainted. It happened so fast, so I dragged you to your bed."
"OF COURSE I DID! Wait–you dragged me to my bed?!" He practically screamed. "OH MY GOODNESS, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!"
She just sat there, hands folded neatly in her lap, like they were discussing the weather.
He was losing his damn mind. His damn fucking mind.
Elias squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe he was still drunk. Maybe his brain was playing tricks on him. Yes, that had to be it. The cocaine he had sniffed at the club last night was messing with his head.
He opened one eye.
Nope. She was still there.
"You're not real," he whispered.
She frowned. "I am."
"No, you're not."
She crawled closer.
He flattened himself against the headboard.
"I am real, Elias," she said softly.
Then–she touched him.
Her hand, warm against his arm. Solid. Real.
He flinched.
Oh, hell no.
Was this how Adam felt when Eve was made for him?!
Because he was terrified.
But also…
He couldn't look away.
"You…" His voice was hoarse. "You really exist?"
She nodded.
He swallowed hard. His whole body was trembling, but somehow, he forced himself to move.
Slowly, he reached out. His fingers brushed her cheek. Soft. Warm. Real.
"Shit," he whispered.
She laughed, sitting back on the bed, watching him.
He needed a minute. Or an hour. Or a therapist.
Swinging his legs off the bed, he stood. His legs were wobbly, but the second he glanced at her, his hangover vanished.
Nope. He was sober as hell now.
"I need to wash my face," he muttered.
"Okay," she said simply.
She just… sat there.
Watching him.
He hurried into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and gripped the sink.
Deep breaths.
Okay. Okay. Think.
He had written her into existence. A woman. A perfect woman.
But how? HOW?!
He dried his face, braced himself, and stepped back into the room.
She was still there.
Still perfect.
Still watching him.
He ran a hand down his face. "Alright. You talk. I'll listen."
She smiled, like she already knew he'd say that.
Of course she did. He made her, didn't he?
"I know you, Elias," she said softly.
He tensed. "What?"
"I know your dreams. Your fears. Your pain." Her gaze was gentle but piercing. "I know everything."
His stomach twisted. "That's not possible."
She tilted her head. "But it is."
He folded his arms. "Fine. Where did you come from?"
She smiled.
"You already know."
He froze.
That same answer.
Those same damn words.
A chill crawled down his spine.
"My name?" he demanded.
"You already know," she repeated.
His heart stopped.
He turned to the bedside table, pulse hammering.
The book.
It was still there.
He grabbed it, flipping frantically through the pages. His breathing turned shallow.
Every word he had written the night before was there.
Every single detail.
He swallowed hard, turning back to her.
"Seraphine," he whispered.
She smiled.
"That's my name."
His stomach dropped.
This wasn't just some crazy dream.
This was real.
And he had no idea what the hell he had just done.
Later that night, Elias lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Seraphine was beside him, asleep. Peaceful.
Like she belonged here.
Like she had always been here.
He hadn't slept a damn second.
How could he?
He created her. She was supposed to be his.
But something felt… off.
He turned his head, staring at the black book on his bedside table.
Then—
The pages flipped on their own.
His heart pounded.
"What the—?"
The book moved.
The ink bled onto the page, forming words.
His chest tightened as the sentence appeared before his eyes.
His hands trembled.
His blood ran cold.
"She was never yours to create."
He barely had time to process the words before Seraphine stirred beside him.
She turned, her dark eyes fluttering open.
Sleepy. Beautiful.
"Something wrong?" she murmured.
He forced a shaky breath. "No," he lied.
She smiled softly, resting her head against his arm.
Elias stared at the book.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Because deep down…
He knew.
Something had gone wrong.
And he might not be ready for it.
Might not even want to think about it.