Ana didn't sleep.
She barely breathed.
Every time she closed her eyes, Hayden's voice echoed in her skull.
> *"Because you're the daughter of the man who burned my mother alive."*
Her skin still burned where he touched her wrist. Her cheek stung from slapping him, but what really ached was deeper—sick and electric in her chest.
She should have felt only hate.
But hate was clean.
What she felt now was tangled with guilt and heat and something else—something shameful.
*Desire.*
Ana sat on her apartment floor with an untouched glass of wine, staring at her phone. There were a dozen missed calls from her father. He always sensed when she was slipping.
She didn't answer.
Not yet.
She needed time to think.
She needed space to *breathe*—but Hayden had taken that from her.
Every corner of her mind smelled like him now.
The night. The heat. The cruelty.
She had walked into his den thinking she could handle him, contain him.
She hadn't even scratched the surface.
---
The next morning, Ana found a small black box at her door.
No note. No delivery slip.
Inside was a necklace. Gold. Thin. Elegant.
A single ruby teardrop dangling from the center.
She almost threw it away.
Almost.
But something stopped her—something raw and unwanted.
She didn't put it on. Not yet. But she didn't throw it away either.
---
She didn't hear from Hayden for three days.
No calls. No roses. No threats.
And somehow that was worse.
The silence was its own kind of violence.
He had lit a fire under her skin and left it smoldering.
By the fourth night, she cracked.
Ana called her father.
He answered on the first ring. "Where have you been?"
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
"You don't sound fine."
She hesitated. Then: "Dad, did something happen… a long time ago? Between us and another family? When I was ten?"
Silence.
Then a cold shift in his voice.
"Why are you asking that?"
"I just—something happened. I need to know."
"That was a long time ago, Ana," he said. "It's not your concern."
"It *is* my concern," she snapped. "Someone found me. A man. He says you killed his mother. That you set a fire. That I was there."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Then: "You're never to speak to him again."
"Dad—"
"I mean it. He's dangerous. Those people are animals. He's trying to get to me through you."
"Did you do it?" she whispered.
A beat.
Then the lie.
"No."
But she heard it.
She *heard* the lie in his voice.
And suddenly, everything Hayden had said slammed back into her like a bullet to the chest.
She couldn't trust her father.
Not anymore.
---
That night, she drank half a bottle of wine and stared at the ruby necklace until the lines between right and wrong blurred.
By midnight, she put it on.
It rested just above her collarbone, cool and sharp.
A mark.
A warning.
A surrender.
She shouldn't have worn it.
But she *wanted* him to see it.
---
The next day, he came for her again.
Not at night.
Not in secret.
In broad daylight, outside her gallery, in a black car that purred like a beast.
The window rolled down.
"Get in."
She didn't move.
He leaned back into the leather seat. "You're wearing the necklace."
"I was curious."
He smirked. "No. You missed me."
"You're delusional."
"And you're lying to yourself."
She hated that he was right.
But she got in anyway.
---
They didn't go to his penthouse.
They drove to a secluded estate on the edge of the city—iron gates, thick woods, winding drive.
Ana didn't ask questions.
Not anymore.
She was done pretending she had control.
Inside, the house was darker than his penthouse. Wood. Leather. Deep shadows and deeper silence.
"This place feels like a trap," she said.
Hayden closed the door behind her.
"It is."
He walked to the bar, poured whiskey into two glasses.
She didn't drink.
"You said you wanted answers," he said. "But you haven't earned them."
"I'm not a pet," she snapped.
"No," he said. "You're prey. There's a difference."
She set the untouched glass down hard. "Is that how you see me? A deer in the woods?"
His eyes were black with amusement—and something darker.
"No. You're a flame. I want to see how close I can get before I burn."
Ana's breath caught.
Because she knew he meant it.
Every word.
---
They didn't kiss.
Not yet.
But his presence invaded her body like heat invading frozen skin. It hurt. It healed. It awakened something dangerous.
She walked past him toward the grand piano in the corner of the room.
"You play?" she asked.
He came up behind her. Close. Too close.
"I don't have time for soft things."
"Then why own one?"
He didn't answer.
She touched one key—lightly, gently—and it made the room echo.
She felt his breath on her neck before she heard his voice.
"You want to be ruined, Ana?"
She turned her head slightly, pulse fluttering. "You think I'm weak?"
"No," he said. "I think you've never been touched the way you need."
Her eyes flashed. "And you think *you* can do it?"
He leaned in.
"I *will* do it."
And then he walked away.
Just like that.
Leaving her hot. Shaken. Wanting.
---
Later that night, back at her apartment, Ana locked the door behind her.
She pulled the ruby necklace off slowly.
But when she looked in the mirror, she realized it had already marked her skin.
There was no turning back now.
Not from the man.
Not from the fire.
Not from the truth.