[Hah! Just look at Adrian Whitmore's gaze—trouble is bound to follow!]
[One must admit, the rival's figure is divine, sculpted like a masterpiece!]
[Good heavens, Sebastian Kane hardly appears impoverished here—his allure is steeped in wealth and danger!]
[Can one truly fault him? If Adrian or Lucas bore my name etched upon their magnificent chests, I too would falter!]
[Have I stumbled upon a forbidden pairing? This chemistry feels sinful, yet irresistible.]
[Impossible! With a man so exquisitely made, how could he not be worthy of Clara? What is the author hiding from us?]
[Sebastian suffers from only one fatal flaw—poverty.]
[And yet, that very imperfection sharpens his magnetism, making him more intoxicating than Lucas himself.]
Clara instinctively pressed a hand against her chest.
Why was Adrian staring there? What manner of depravity was this?
"When did you have it inscribed?" Adrian's voice was smooth, edged with derision.
Clara flushed with indignation. He seemed utterly ignorant of propriety, leaning languidly against the doorframe as though the room were his by right, speaking to her without the faintest trace of shame.
"It is none of your concern. Leave."
"Very well," he drawled. "Swim alone, then."
"Wait—" Clara seized his arm. She had not yet taken the photograph; he could not be allowed to depart.
Her reply was muffled, reluctant. "Freshman year."
Adrian studied her face—half defiant, half timid—and his lips curved in amusement. "So, you've been secretly in love with me since then?"
Clara blinked. What?
The humiliation that had weighed upon her chest dissolved into astonishment. A laugh burst free, uncontrollable. It spilled into peals of mirth until her legs trembled beneath her crouched frame. She was about to collapse when Adrian reached out and caught her effortlessly.
The absence of fabric between them made the sensation undeniable—the warmth, the unyielding firmness of his abdomen pressed against her.
Her laughter stilled.
"Why so solemn now?" Adrian arched a brow.
Clara flushed scarlet and grasped at a diversion. "Weren't you going to teach me to swim?"
"First, a fee for my services."
"That sounds utterly indecent. Then I shall not learn."
"Too late." With a single, fluid motion he swept her into his arms, striding into the pool as though he owned both her and the water. He leaned closer, as though to claim her lips.
"Put me down!" Clara protested.
He obeyed.
The pool was shallow; she could stand. As she made for the edge, his voice carried over the water. "The first step is to cast away fear. Tell me, Clara—are you still afraid?"
Her steps faltered. He was right—his presence had stolen her terror. Memories of her childhood abduction had always made water a suffocating specter, but now she stood submerged, unbroken.
Adrian's lips quirked. "Shall we continue?"
She nodded, resolute. "Yes."
"Then float."
He glided toward her, one hand steadying her waist, supporting her gently as she stretched across the shimmering surface.
"Relax. Breathe slowly. Imagine yourself as driftwood—light, untethered, borne upon the waves."
But Clara could not. Her fear was not of drowning—it was of surfacing only to find herself alone once more. The pool's sapphire glow bled into the memory of a merciless sea. Her body stiffened, trembling.
Then his hand found hers, fingers entwining, grounding her.
"Do not fear," Adrian whispered, his voice warped by the rippling water, caressing her ear like a vow. "I am here."
Clara's heart jolted. A memory surged—four years ago, a hospital ward, a hand clasping hers in the dark.
That evening, at the Whitmore dining table, Clara presented a carefully edited video to her adoptive mother. The phantom heat of Adrian's touch lingered at her waist, a haunting echo. She had chosen only blurred silhouettes, or underwater shots—nothing incriminating.
Her mother beamed. "Did I not say? That dress flatters you. Lucas adores you in it."
Clara forced a demure smile.
But her mother's words grew sharper. "Remember, Clara, we are a family of scholars, of refinement. Secure the marriage swiftly. I will not have you parading in a gown heavy with scandal."
The admonition stung. Clara lowered her lashes. "Rest assured, Mother. Lucas has promised me a marriage license."
Her father interjected hastily, "Tomorrow I shall bring home the household register. That way Clara may wed at once."
Clara's pulse quickened. So soon?
She masked her elation with a sigh. "If it must be so."
But her mother's next command struck deeper still. "You will attend Madam Whitmore's birthday banquet on Wednesday. Choose a gift worthy of her regard. Do not disgrace me."
Clara inclined her head. "Yes, Mother."
All the while, her half-sister basked in their attention, the family already conspiring to place her in Adrian's path.
Later, in her room, Clara's phone glowed. A message awaited from Tsuki.
Not stolen images.
Her breath stilled. The video, the sculpted body she had mocked belonged to no stranger. It was real. Terrifyingly real.
And as her fingers hovered above the screen, her friend's warning echoed:
You are training him. Shaping a god into a monster. And once he awakens, Clara—you will not escape.
"He will plunder, he will confine, and he will burn with an unrelenting hunger to possess."
"You will find no escape—wherever you may flee, a damp and shadowed gaze will cling to your every step, ready to devour you whole."
"You will tremble, you will crave, you will drown in obsession."
"And still, you know—you are the one who holds dominion over this bond."
Clara could not comprehend it, yet she respected it.
She respected the promise of wealth.
To her, insecurity was the most exquisite dowry a man could bring.
[Clara]: I don't care for this style.
[Tsuki]: Then tell me—what is it you desire?
That tone—
Could it truly fashion an experience molded to the player's every whim, a performance sculpted on command?
Clara decided to test it.
She searched the web for directives, then sent them across.
[Clara]: A dormitory backdrop. A man with a lean, powerful frame in a white dress shirt, strapped with a black suspender. The fabric must cling to his chest and biceps, the sleeves rolled to reveal the carved planes of his forearms and a silver watch catching the light. His fingers should toy slowly with the drawstring of grey trousers…
[Clara]: Low-angle, backlit from both sides in pale blue and rose. A cap and black mask to veil his face, lending mystery.
She hesitated, then added another line.
[Clara]: No music. Only the whisper of fabric against skin, raw ASMR.
Only after sending everything did Clara realize what she had demanded. To obey such complex instructions would require an immense data model, far beyond what her friend's prototype could contain. A flicker of unease pierced her.
Would she break the AI?
The silence that followed confirmed her fears. The program stalled.
Clara set the phone aside, switched it to silent, and buried herself in her thesis.
Hours slipped past.
The moon climbed high, casting its silver hush across the night. She showered, returned to bed—then noticed ten unread messages.
20:05 PM
[Tsuki]: ?
[Tsuki]: You wish me to record such a video? Impossible.
22:10 PM
[Tsuki]: …Perhaps not impossible.
22:40 PM
[Tsuki]: [Video]
[Tsuki]: My roommate came back, so I kept it brief.
22:50 PM
[Tsuki]: Not to your taste?
[Tsuki]: Or have you gone to watch another?
Clara opened the file.
Her eyes widened.
The setting was unmistakably a dormitory, dim-lit and heavy with shadows. A man in a white shirt—collar undone, long fingers brushing his throat as he loosened his tie—moved with languid precision. The silver watch caught at the edge of his jawline as he slipped open one button, then another, then another…
His sleeves were rolled high, baring lean, sculpted arms. One hand braced against the desk, the other slid deliberately to the drawstring of his grey sweatpants, exactly as she had commanded.
His face remained hidden, yet even faceless, he radiated an intoxicating dominance.
The silence was alive, broken only by the rasp of fabric and the slow, deliberate weight of his breathing.
Then—footsteps, the creak of the door. A roommate entered. He lowered the phone, ended the recording.
The screen went dark, its glow reflected against Clara's fevered cheeks.
[Replay it! Please—just once more!]
[Good God—what is this AI called? I need it too!]
[What name? Call it Husband!]
[I have forgotten every line of poetry I ever learned, but this—this burns into my soul!]
Clara buried her face in a plush pillow, desperate to cool the fire rising within her. "This… this is far too much…"
Her head swam. She recalled the manual's warning: Always provide positive feedback.
Suppressing the urge to watch it again, she typed a single line into the chat box—