Rhett Barone stood at the tall glass window of his penthouse, the city lights glittering beneath him like a sea of dying stars. His reflection stared back, sharp and unyielding, but his mind was far from the view. Lilith Steele. Her name pulsed through his blood like a drug he couldn't shake.
It had been days since that night, yet the memory still branded itself into his skull—the trembling innocence, the resistance that only fueled his hunger, the marks he had left on her flawless skin. He had told himself he would let her breathe, let her roam free, but obsession was a sickness that tightened around his throat. Every hour without her felt like a century. Every report from Steve about her whereabouts was consumed with a feverish hunger.
"Boss," Steve's voice broke into his thoughts. He stood a respectful distance behind him, a file tucked under his arm. "We've been monitoring Miss Steele's movements closely. She's… keeping to herself. Work. Hospital visits. Pharmacy. Nothing unusual."
Rhett's jaw tightened. Nothing unusual? Every mundane detail about her was unusual to him—because it was hers. He needed to know every breath she took, every step she made. He turned, his eyes dark as he faced his assistant.
"And the pill?" Rhett's voice was a blade.
Steve hesitated. "Confirmed. She took it."
For a heartbeat, silence suffocated the room. Then Rhett's laugh—low, humorless, cold—echoed like a gunshot. "She thinks she can erase me," he murmured, his hand curling into a fist. "As if I'm a mistake she can flush out of her body. No… she will learn. She already belongs to me."
He moved back toward the window, his broad shoulders rigid. "Let her pretend. Let her run. But when the time is right, I'll clip her wings and cage her."
Steve swallowed, wisely holding his tongue.
---
Meanwhile, in another part of the city, Robert Steele paced his study like a man cornered by his own debts. Papers cluttered his mahogany desk—legal threats, foreclosure warnings, bills piling higher than his pride. The fall of Marlowe Corporation had shaken him to his core. The name once tied to his own fortune was now dirt, dragged down by Rhett Barone's merciless hand.
But Robert refused to crumble. He had a card left to play, and that card was the elusive Barone family itself.
Maria sat gracefully on the chaise, legs crossed, nails painted blood red. Unlike her half-sister, she knew how to shine when power called. She basked in her father's desperate praise, every word massaging her vanity.
"You, Maria," Robert said, pointing a trembling finger at her, "you will be the salvation of this family. You carry yourself with elegance, with grace. Not like your useless sister who only brings shame." His voice dripped with contempt at the mention of Lilith, as though her very existence was a blemish he couldn't scrub away.
Maria smirked. "Don't worry, Father. I'll do what Lilith could never. I'll get us close to the Barones."
Robert chuckled, almost delirious with relief, and raised his glass of scotch in toast. "Finally, a daughter worthy of the Steele name."
---
At that same hour, Lilith sat slumped at her desk in the marketing office, her head pounding. Cheryl, her superior, had been relentless the entire day—piling tasks, criticizing the smallest errors, humiliating her in front of colleagues. Each word had chipped at Lilith's fragile spirit, but she endured, masking her weariness with forced composure.
By the time she returned home, she was beyond exhausted. Ivy had tried to tease her into laughter, but Lilith brushed it aside with tired smiles, her soul heavy. After cooking a small meal she barely touched, she collapsed on her bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling in a daze.
Sleep finally dragged her under—restless, shallow. But what she didn't know was that her room had already been breached.
Rhett.
"You haunt me, little dove," he whispered, his voice a dangerous prayer.
Rhett Barone was not a man who allowed himself to be distracted, yet tonight his composure was splintered. He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at the woman who had taken root in his veins like poison and honey all at once. Lilith Steele.
She lay there in restless sleep, the faintest crease on her brow, her body curled slightly as if bracing itself against the world. His eyes lingered on the curve of her throat, where faint bruises bloomed like cruel roses—marks he had left, reminders of his claim. He had told himself he would keep his distance, but his self-control had long since burned away.
Slowly, he lowered himself onto the bed beside her. His hand, large and warm, slid across her cheek with dangerous tenderness. She stirred but did not wake. His mouth curved in satisfaction.
"You're mine," he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. "No nightmare, no pill, no father of yours will ever change that. You belong here… to me."
His hand drifted lower, tracing her collarbone, then down the slope of her chest. His palm pressed over the swell of her breast, squeezing gently, possessively, as though daring the night itself to deny his right. He bent forward, his breath hot against her skin, and buried his mouth at the base of her throat. He kissed her there—deep, demanding—then trailed his lips upward, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss that devoured the distance between sleep and wakefulness.
Lilith murmured faintly, her lips parting under the pressure, but her slumber kept her trapped in the haze of dreams. Rhett took advantage, sliding his hand along her waist, pulling her closer, feeling her body mold against his hard frame. His breath grew heavier as he pressed his forehead to hers.
"Nothing will separate us," he growled softly, his words laced with dark promise. "Not your father. Not another man. Not even your will. You are bound to me now."
He pressed another kiss against her lips—longer, deeper, as though branding her spirit—and then buried his face against her chest, inhaling her scent with hunger that bordered on madness. His fingers tightened on her body, memorizing every curve through the thin fabric of her nightclothes.
For long minutes he remained like that, indulging in the fever of obsession, whispering her name against her skin like a prayer twisted into possession. Only when the fire in his blood threatened to consume him entirely did he finally pull away.
He stood, straightening his suit jacket, his expression unreadable. But in his eyes burned the vow of a man who would stop at nothing. As he slipped out of the room, silent as a shadow, his lips curved into a dangerous smile.
"Soon, Lilith," he murmured to himself. "You'll understand there is no world without me in it."
And with that, he vanished into the night, leaving her untouched innocence forever marked by his obsession.