Sleep evades me.
Not because I'm not tired, but because I'm beyond exhausted. But the kind of exhaustion I feel isn't the kind that sleep can fix. My body is drained, my mind is screaming, and the silence in this penthouse is too loud. Every shadow feels like a threat. Every creak, every whisper of wind brushing against the glass windows, sounds like a countdown to something I can't see coming.
I try closing my eyes, but all I see is that wall of photos. My face. My life. On display like a case file. Aiden's face flashes too unmoving, unreadable, holding a gun like it was just another pen on his desk.
The bed beneath me is too soft, the sheets too clean. Like everything else here, it's beautiful. Expensive. Cold. I feel like an intruder in a place not meant for someone like me.
Hours drag. I don't cry, I don't even think I can. But my hands won't stop shaking under the covers.
By the time sunlight creeps in through the tall glass panes, I haven't slept a minute.
My throat is dry. My thoughts are worse.
I finally push the covers off and step onto the cold marble floor. My legs feel stiff, like I've aged years overnight. The oversized shirt he gave me to wear is wrinkled, hanging off my frame like a flag of surrender.
When I step out into the open living area, the first thing I smell is coffee.
The man holding the mug is seated like he owns the world.
Because, in a way, he does.
Aiden sits at the far end of the long dining table, dark tailored suit crisp even this early. His sleeves are rolled just enough to expose the ink on his forearm; black lines, sharp and unspoken.
The air between us crackles with tension. His gaze lifts, barely a flicker of surprise that I'm standing there.
"You're awake," he says, like we're just two people who spent a normal night in the same apartment.
"Let me go," I say, and my voice is stronger than I expect. My hands may be trembling, but my spine holds firm.
He lowers his mug. "No."
Just like that. Flat. Final.
I step closer, fists clenched. "You can't keep me here."
"I can," he says, "and I am."
"Why?" My voice breaks despite me. "Why me?"
Aiden leans back in the chair, folding his arms as if we're in a negotiation, not a hostage situation.
"Because they know you were here."
"Who?"
"My enemies," he says simply. Like he's naming the weather.
It hits me harder than it should. "You're lying."
"Am I?" he counters. "I have men outside this building who would die for me. And men across the city who want me dead. You walked into my world. You were seen. Now you're leveraging."
My stomach turns. "So this is my fault?"
"No," he says. "But it's your problem."
I feel like the floor shifts under me. I grab the back of a chair to steady myself. "So what now? You kill me or keep me?"
"Neither."
He stands, slowly.
And when he speaks again, it changes everything.
"You're going to be my girlfriend."
I blink. "What?"
"We go public. Photos. Dinners. Touches that mean nothing. Smiles that lie. You pretend to be mine."
I laugh, short and sharp. "You're insane."
He walks around the table, steps calm, steady. He doesn't get angry. He doesn't raise his voice.
But I've never felt more hunted.
"Deadly," he says. "Not insane. There's a difference."
I back up. "There are a hundred women you could've picked—"
"But they saw you," he cuts in. "Not them. You. If I show up with someone else, it won't matter. The threat will stay. But if I show up with you proud and possessive, it sends a message."
"And what message is that?" I snap.
"That you belong to me."
The words hang between us like a noose.
That you belong to me.
I swallow hard, unsure if it's fear or fury rising in my chest. "You don't own me."
Aiden tilts his head. "No. But for now, I will protect you like I do."
"That's not protection," I fire back. "That's possession."
He steps closer again. "Call it whatever you want. But I'm the only thing standing between you and a bullet."
My jaw tightens. "So those photos… the ones of me sleeping, walking, were that protection too? Or something more twisted?"
A flash of something, regret? Shame? Flickers in his expression. But it's gone before I can name it.
"You weren't supposed to see those."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he says simply. "It's not."
I press my back against the wall, needing the stability. "You're insane if you think I'll just… play along." I stammer.
"You already are," he says, almost gently. "You're still here."
"I'm trapped here."
"You didn't run when I told you who I was. You didn't scream when I told you the truth."
He leans in, voice quieter now, almost tender.
But he doesn't have to.
The answer's written all over his face.
I don't reply because part of me didn't.
The envelope. The weird instructions. The wrongness of the address. I'd ignored my gut because I needed the money.
And now?
Now I'm standing in front of a man who doesn't blink when bullets fly.
---
The Bang Comes Again.
This time, louder.
Glass explodes.
I scream and hit the floor as the sharp sound of gunfire splits the morning calm. A bullet punches through the window and slams into the wall behind me.
Aiden moves instantly — like a shadow.
He doesn't flinch.
He doesn't panic.
He reaches for the pistol tucked at his waist and moves to the window. The curtain snaps shut beneath his hand, cutting off the view. He looks down at me, breath steady.
"Congratulations," he murmurs. "You just became the most dangerous woman in the city."
I stare up at him, heart hammering. "What the hell was that?!"
He crouches beside me. His hand brushes my shoulder grounding or warning, I can't tell.
"They missed on purpose."
"What?"
He meets my eyes, his voice low and lethal. "It wasn't meant to kill. It was a message."
I shake my head. "From who?"
He doesn't answer.
—
I stay on the floor, breath shallow, heart thudding. My fingers dig into the carpet as the ringing in my ears refuses to fade.
That was a bullet.
A real one.
And it was meant for me.
"You should get up," Aiden says, voice low but steady. "There'll be more."
More?
I look up at him, stunned. "Who the hell are you?"
He crouches beside me. Calm. Too calm. "The man keeping you alive."
"That doesn't answer anything," I snap. "Why do people want me dead because I walked into the wrong room?"
"Because it's never just a room," he says. "And you didn't just walk in. You saw things. Me. That puts you on their radar."
I want to scream at him. To demand the truth, demand answers, demand my life back. But there's something in his eyes… something haunted, something lethal that tells me screaming won't help.
"I don't want any part in this," I whisper.
"You already have one," he says, standing again. "So either we fake a relationship and protect your life… or you die in two days. Maybe one."
I swallow hard. "You can't be serious."
"I never joke about death." He pauses. "Or loyalty."
I rise shakily to my feet. "What does this 'relationship' even mean? You parade me around like a prop until they lose interest?"
His lips twitch — a smirk, maybe, or a warning. "They won't lose interest. And this isn't pretend, Serina. Its performance. We sell the illusion until it becomes real enough to terrify them."
"Terrify who?"
His gaze darkens. "The men who'd rather see us dead than together."
Us.
He said to us.
And despite the adrenaline still racing through me, something else creeps in. Something colder. More intimate.
This isn't just about survival.
This is about power.
Control.
Leverage.
"You're using me," I say.
He steps closer. "I'm keeping you alive. Big difference."
Silence stretches between us.
I study him, the expensive suit, the unreadable expression, the faint scar above his brow. Everything about him screams danger. But he doesn't feel reckless. He feels calculated.
And I know, somehow, that I'm not the first person to be pulled into his orbit like this.
But maybe I'll be the first one who survives it.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth. "I'll play along."
He nods once. "We start tonight."
"What?"
"There's a gala. I need to be seen. You'll be on my arm."
"I don't have anything to wear."
His phone's already in his hand. "You will in ten minutes."
---
Ten minutes later, three garment bags arrive. Black SUVs. Men with no names, no smiles. A stylist steps into the penthouse like she's done this a hundred times and probably has.
I don't get to choose. I barely get to speak. But when I step out of the dressing room, something shifts.
The dress is black. Sleek. Hugging every curve like it's painted on. My hair's up. My lips are blood red. I barely recognize myself.
And neither does Aiden.
He freezes when he sees me.
Just for a moment.
Then the mask returns.
"You'll do," he says coolly.
But his eyes say something else entirely.
Possession. Approval. Maybe something darker.
I walk past him, my heels clicking on marble floors.
"You coming?" I say over my shoulder.
He follows.
---
The gala is held in a glass tower that overlooks the entire city. Crystal chandeliers. Music that sounds like seduction. Everyone here has secrets sewn into their seams.
Aiden's hand rests on the small of my back like he owns me.
People turn. Cameras flash.
And just like that, I become his.
"Smile," he whispers.
I do.
Barely.
Inside, I'm screaming.
---
Halfway through the night, he leans in close.
"They're watching. The men who sent the bullet."
"Where?"
He nods toward a cluster of suited figures by the bar. Cold eyes. Subtle nods.
They see me.
They recognize me.
I reach for my glass of champagne, hands trembling. Aiden's grip tightens around my waist.
"Don't flinch," he murmurs. "Own it."
So I do. I turn and look at them, straight in the eye. Not a courier. Not a mistake.
A threat.
Aiden leans down again, his lips grazing my ear. "That's my girl."
And suddenly, I can't tell where the act ends and the lie begins.
---
Later, when the car door shuts behind us and we're speeding back toward the penthouse, I finally exhale.
"That was the most terrifying thing I've ever done," I mutter.
Aiden doesn't look at me. "Get used to it."
"What happens now?"
"We make it convincing."
He pulls out his phone, snaps a photo of me in the low light of the car. Then another. His hand finds my jaw, tilts my face. His thumb brushes my cheek.
"Post it," he says.