I woke up the next morning to the sharp echo of knocking. Not gentle. Not polite. Demanding.
I sat up quickly, my heart leaping into my throat. The thin mattress creaked beneath me as the door swung open without waiting for my answer.
Adrian.
He stood in the doorway, black suit sharp as a blade, dark eyes colder than the early morning air.
"You're coming with me," he said.
I blinked. "What? Where—"
"Get dressed." His tone carried no room for questions. "Five minutes. Or I'll have you dragged out as you are."
A cold shiver raced down my spine. He wasn't bluffing.
When I didn't move fast enough, his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Four minutes."
I scrambled, pulling on the plain black dress from yesterday. My hands shook as I brushed through my tangled hair. Every second felt like I was racing against some invisible clock.
By the time I stepped out into the hall, he was waiting. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a pair of sleek black leather gloves. He slipped them on with deliberate precision, his gaze never leaving me.
"Better," he muttered, then walked ahead. I had no choice but to follow.
The car waiting outside wasn't just a car—it was a statement. Black, armored, the kind that hummed with quiet power. He opened the back door and glanced at me over his shoulder.
"Inside."
The ride was silent, except for the hum of the engine. I tried not to fidget under his gaze, but the weight of it pressed on me like chains.
Finally, I broke the silence. "Where are we going?"
His lips curved, though it wasn't a smile. "You ask too many questions."
I swallowed. "I deserve to know—"
"No," he cut in sharply. "You deserve nothing. Not yet."
The city blurred past, glass towers and crowded streets, until the car pulled into a quiet, exclusive restaurant. The kind I'd only ever seen in magazines.
When we stepped inside, whispers rippled through the room. Not at me—at him. People shifted, hushed, avoided his gaze.
Adrian Veyron wasn't just feared. He was power.
He led me to a private table in the corner, and only when we sat did I realize what this was.
A test.
The waiter arrived instantly, bowing. "Mr. Veyron."
Adrian's eyes flicked to me. "Order."
My chest tightened. "What?"
"Order," he repeated, leaning back like a king on his throne. "Let's see how you behave in my world."
The menu felt heavier than stone in my hands. French names, dishes I couldn't pronounce, prices that could pay a month of rent. I froze.
Adrian's smirk deepened as he watched me squirm. "What's wrong, maid? Out of your depth?"
I clenched my fists under the table. "No."
His voice lowered, dark and velvety. "Then prove it."
I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "The—uh—filet mignon."
He chuckled, slow and amused, as though I'd just stepped willingly into his trap.
"Good girl," he murmured.
Heat rushed to my face. And yet, despite his mockery, despite the humiliation burning my chest, a traitorous part of me thrilled at his approval.
What was happening to me?
The waiter left, and silence wrapped around us again. But it wasn't empty silence—it was heavy, like the weight of a storm pressing down.
Adrian sipped his wine, eyes never leaving me. Every movement of his hand, every shift of his gaze was calculated. Predatory.
"You don't belong here," he said finally.
The words stung. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but his gaze silenced me before I could speak.
"And yet…" He set the glass down with a soft clink. "Here you are. Sitting across from me."
My pulse hammered. "Because you forced me."
A low, dark laugh slipped from his throat. "Did I?" He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Or did you follow because some part of you wanted to see how far I'd take you?"
His words cut through me, sharp and merciless. I hated that they struck something true.
"I didn't ask for this," I whispered.
"No," he said softly, almost gently. "But fate rarely asks."
The waiter returned with our food, silver lids lifted to reveal plates that looked like art. I had no appetite. But Adrian cut into his steak with deliberate grace, never breaking eye contact.
"Eat," he ordered.
My hands trembled slightly as I picked up the fork. The first bite nearly choked me—not from the taste, which was exquisite, but from the weight of his stare.
"You're nervous," he said. Not a question. A statement.
I swallowed hard. "Anyone would be."
"Not anyone. Not me."
The corner of his mouth tugged upward, though it wasn't warmth. It was the shadow of a man who knew he ruled every room he entered.
"Fear can be useful," he continued, his voice dropping lower, darker. "It sharpens instincts. Teaches survival. But too much fear? It makes you weak."
I forced myself to meet his eyes. "And what do you want from me? To be fearless?"
He leaned back, studying me like a puzzle he fully intended to solve. "No. I want you to learn which fears to obey… and which to master."
My breath caught. His words weren't just about the moment. They were a warning.
When the meal ended, he rose smoothly and extended a hand—not to help me up, but as a silent command.
I hesitated. Then, slowly, I placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine—firm, possessive, inescapable.
The world around us faded. For that instant, it was just him and me, bound by something I couldn't name.
And as he led me out of the restaurant, whispers following us like shadows, one truth burned in my chest:
I was already in too deep.