Author's POV:
Dr. Celeste Morgan sat behind her pristine glass desk, the Manhattan skyline bleeding sunset across her office window like a wound too beautiful to hurt. Below her, the city buzzed with need — lovers meeting in hotel lobbies, strangers brushing hands in crowded subways, moans muffled behind penthouse curtains. Desire was everywhere. It was her business. Her art.
But hers was dead.
She adjusted the sleeve of her tailored navy dress and glanced at the clock. 6:42 p.m. Her last client had left ten minutes ago — a newlywed wife who blushed too easily and asked Celeste if fantasies about her yoga instructor meant she was broken. Celeste had smiled, calm and clinical, and assured her that fantasy was not betrayal. That shame was the lie. She had watched the young woman leave lighter, grateful. Whole.
And yet, Celeste sat here now, hollow. Her fingers curled around a porcelain teacup, untouched. The office was silent. Too silent.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from Damien.
Stuck at the firm. Don't wait for me.
No hi, no love you, no punctuation. Just absence, efficiently delivered.
She didn't reply. She didn't need to. They hadn't touched each other in six months. When they spoke, it was in the language of schedules and shared chores. He didn't look at her anymore — not really. She could've walked in naked and he'd probably ask if she remembered to order more oat milk.
Celeste set the phone down and turned to the window. That's when she saw them.
Roses.
A bouquet resting on the corner of her waiting room couch. Deep crimson, bound with a black silk ribbon. She hadn't heard anyone come in. Her assistant had left early.
Frowning, she walked out and approached them. There was a note tucked beneath the ribbon.
For the doctor who understands everyone — but who will understand her?
No name. No number.
She stared at the script — masculine, elegant, unmistakably foreign. A chill prickled down her spine.
The next day, they came again. Different bouquet. Same black ribbon. New note.
Desire starts with curiosity. Shall we?
Celeste told herself it was harmless. A fluke. An admirer, maybe a grateful patient. She reported it to security. But there was no footage. No signature. No pattern.
Except for the man.
He first appeared as a silent client — late twenties, storm-gray eyes, impeccable charcoal suit. He gave a false name. Didn't speak. Just sat in the chair across from her and watched. Too long. Too still.
Celeste should've dismissed him. But she didn't. Her breath hitched every time he entered the room. She told herself it was curiosity — a puzzle. But when she went home that night, her dreams had teeth. And a name.
Lucien.
She didn't know who he was yet. Just that his presence unraveled her composure thread by thread. And she wanted more.
Even before she knew the price.