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Chapter 3 - EP2: The Rule of Proximity

Linda didn't sleep. Not really.

The guest room was too quiet. Too close to his.

Every time she turned over in bed, she imagined his breathing through the wall. Every creak of wood made her think he was standing right outside her door.

She hated that her skin tingled at the thought.

By dawn, her eyes were dry, her mind restless. She dressed in silence—plain shirt, dark slacks—and tied her hair back like armor.

When she stepped out, Damian was already at the table. Black coffee. Newspaper. And that impossible stillness.

He didn't look up.

"I was beginning to think you'd left," he said.

Linda pulled out a chair carefully. "Should I have?"

He sipped his coffee. "Most women who enter my house either fall apart or try to tame me. You look like the kind who runs."

"I don't run," she said, even though her feet still ached from the first step onto his land.

He glanced at her then. One slow drag of the eyes.

"We'll see."

---

The day was cold. The work colder.

She was handed a binder the size of her chest. Hundreds of documents to audit, sort, digitize.

By noon, her back ached. By evening, her fingers were stiff.

Damian hadn't spoken to her since breakfast.

But he watched.

Every time she reached for another paper. Every time she tucked her hair behind her ear. Every time she breathed.

He was always there—silent, looming, unreadable.

That night, she tried to lock her door.

The key turned.

Click.

And then—

A soft knock.

Her breath caught.

"Miss Vale." His voice, low through the door. "Open it."

"I'm sleeping."

"You're not."

She cursed under her breath.

The door opened slowly.

Damian stood there, shirt undone, sleeves rolled, eyes darker than sin.

"I told you not to lock it."

"You told me a lot of things," she said. "You didn't ask if I agreed."

He stepped inside. Just one step.

And the room grew smaller.

"You think this is about rules?" he asked.

"I think you like control."

He smiled. Sharp. Dangerous.

"No. I like knowing what's mine."

Linda's heart thundered.

"I'm not yours."

"Not yet."

He reached out—not to touch her, but to close the door behind him.

And the fire she thought had started that morning?

It exploded.

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