Aiden
I sit at my desk, a monolithic expanse of polished ebony dominating the room.
The panoramic view of the city—a tapestry of lights and shadows—is framed by floor-to-ceiling windows.
With a quick glance at the calendar, I mentally prepare for a crucial strategy meeting later in the day. This is where new initiatives will be debated, budgets allocated, and priorities set.
As the sun casts a warm glow across the office, I take a deep breath.
Yesterday's encounter lingers in my mind like the fading glow of a sunset. I can't shake her image—the way her laughter danced through the air, the sparkle in her eyes, the genuine warmth of her smile.
But it's not just her beauty. There's something strikingly familiar about her.
A knock interrupts my thoughts.
"Come in," I call, my voice echoing against the silence.
A young woman enters—Anya, my assistant.
"Mr. Volkov, there's an urgent call from the board," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her face is a deep shade of red, flushed. Beads of sweat form on her forehead. Her chest heaves as though she has been running. I wonder why she would start a marathon here—but this isn't my concern now.
"Tell them I'm not free," I say casually.
Anya hesitates but nods. She turns to leave but pauses, as though remembering something she forgot earlier.
"Mr. Donovan wants to meet you. I asked him to wait outside since you told me not to let anyone disturb you. Should I give him access?" she asks, waiting.
"Send him in," I gesture with a finger. She nods and exits.
"What the fuck do you think you are?" My friend's growl fills the room the moment he enters. Fucking Ryder—always ready to pick a fight.
"Did you find anything on that woman I mentioned?" I ask, ignoring his attitude. The woman in question—mysterious, hauntingly familiar—has been lodged in my mind since the moment I saw her.
The sharp line of her jaw. The intensity of her gaze. The enigmatic smile that had briefly touched her lips.
She's alluring and unsettling all at once—a paradox that has captured my attention completely.
I just can't get her out of my head.
"Her full name is Valentina Quinn. She's an author—writes fantasy books. No information about her past or family. Nothing on her parents. The only thing I could find is that she lives in Berlin. That's it. Strange how I couldn't uncover anything else. It's like she's a ghost. The mystery surrounding her identity is… fascinating," he concludes, brows knitted.
Ghost? Yeah—a beautiful one.
How can there be no trace of someone? Unless… she really is a ghost.
"Do you think she might be related to—" Ryder starts.
I raise my hand to shut him up, my jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in my neck twitch.
My eyes remain fixed on a distant point, unblinking, staring into the memory itself.
Calm.
I remind myself.
"Carry on your investigation," I say shortly. "We'll find something."
He nods and leaves without protest. Ryder knows me well. He knows when to stop, and I know I can trust him.
My past isn't a fairytale. Neither is my present.
Nor will my future ever be.
It's the darkest hell.
---
The creak of a door beneath my hand echoes through the quiet room. A wave of nostalgia washes over me as I step inside. The familiar scent of old books and cigarettes fills my lungs—a reminder of countless childhood evenings spent here.
I glance up at the towering ceiling, its ornate details fading in the dim light.
The bay window.
The shelves, lined with history's weight.
My gaze falls on the massive bed. I remember the countless stories my mother told me as we lay beneath those covers. The fireplace—once alive with crackling warmth—now stands cold and empty. A shiver runs down my spine as I imagine flames that no longer burn.
I spot my father, Mikhail Volkov, sitting on a chair in the balcony with a book in his hand. Strange. My father never liked reading. My mother did—Aine Fitzgerald Volkov. All these books belonged to her. They still smell like her, though older now.
Andrea has inherited that habit.
Ever since she left this world, my father has been nothing but stoic and apathetic. His indifference destroyed Andrea's and my childhood. We had to take care of ourselves. Alone.
Mother's death shattered us.
Andrea was so small back then, plagued by panic attacks… but my bastard father never showed concern.
And yet, I can't fully blame him.
He loved my mother so much he would have killed for her.
He was a mafia. She was a politician. They fell in love, got married. For her, he abandoned the underworld because she hated it.
My mother never wanted me in this filth. But her death dragged me straight into it.
The hands that once held toy guns now hold real ones.
"Are you planning to stand there and stare at me for eternity?" His deep, aged voice cuts through my thoughts.
I step closer. He removes his glasses, sets them aside, and looks at me. He barely looks aged—still handsome, still neat.
"Quinn," I say suddenly. "Do you remember that name?"
The reaction is immediate. His jaw ticks, but instead of breaking, his expression hardens into stone.
"And why the hell are you asking me that?" His tone is sharp, impatient, a warning wrapped in calmness.
"I know a woman with that surname. No history, no past. Just her name—and the fact she lives in Berlin."
He leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing like a man calculating the next move on a chessboard. His lips curl into the faintest, mocking smirk.
"So? What does a stranger's name matter to you? Are you chasing women by their surnames now?" His voice drips with sarcasm, each word deliberately cruel.
I study him. The slight twitch of his fingers against the armrest. The cold detachment in his tone. He knows something—he just won't say it.
"You seem too calm for someone who recognizes the name," I remark, testing him.
His gaze sharpens, but his mask doesn't break. "Not everything is about you, Aiden. Focus on what matters. Don't waste your time on ghosts."
I clench my jaw. He won't give me anything. He never does.
"You know what? That's all I needed to hear." My words are sharp, bitten off. I turn and slam the door shut behind me, leaving his shadowed figure behind.
Cool. Calm. Breathe.
But then—
I freeze. My gaze collides with icy rivers—eyes so pure I want to break them open, see what's hidden inside.
"Oh, Aiden. Hey!" Andrea's voice softens me. She waves a book in the air with the widest smile. "Look, I bought a book for Dad."
My chest tightens. I love seeing her smile. She doesn't do it often—not since Mom died. This house suffocates her, but she refuses to leave it, saying it still holds Mother's memories.
"He doesn't read books that aren't hers, munchkin," I say gently, stepping closer.
"We can try, no?" she grins cheekily.
I nod—then notice someone else.
Red hair tied in a ponytail. Juicy, perky lips biting down as if to stop trembling.
Valentina Quinn.
A growl threatens to rise in my throat before I choke it back.
"We meet again, Ms. Quinn. I mean… Valentina." I grin, watching her face twist—scared, uncomfortable.
Good. She shouldn't be comfortable.
Not around me.
She should run.
Because once a predator catches his prey, there's no escape.
"Okay, don't scare her with your dark look," Andrea snaps, stepping protectively in front of her.
"Let's go, Val." She pulls her away.
I watch them leave. My gaze burns into her back until, as if sensing it, she turns. Our eyes lock.
Am I digging too much into it?
But she's waking the monster inside me. And once he rises from his slumber…
He'll hunt.
And the only option she'll have—
Is run.