The ride home was silent except for the hum of the G-Wagon's engine and the occasional rush of night air sweeping against the tinted glass. I sat pressed against the leather seat, my body angled just enough to watch Elijah's face in profile, the way the streetlights glided across his skin like fragments of silver. He looked so calm, so maddeningly assured of himself. My chest tightened with that same flutter I never managed to tame around him.
When he slowed before the gates of the lakeside estate, I almost wished the drive would go on longer, stretching forever through Crestwood's moonlit roads. But the iron gates yawned open, and the mansion loomed ahead — all pillars, archways, and lights glowing against the black sheen of the lake.
Before I unbuckled, I leaned closer and pressed my lips against his. His mouth was warm, confident, holding no hesitation. "Drive home safely," I whispered.
Elijah smirked, that half-dangerous, half-loving curl of his lips that always felt like it was aimed right at my bones. He didn't need words. The look in his eyes made my heartbeat trip over itself, rapid, frantic.
He got out first, circling the car with unhurried grace, pulling the door open for me as though he were rehearsing some scene of timeless chivalry. I stepped down, my heels touching the gravel path, and before I could straighten fully he wrapped me in his arms. The scent of his cologne pressed into me, sharp and intoxicating. For a moment, the world shrank to only this embrace.
Then he released me, slid back into the G-Wagon, and with another lingering look — God, that look — he pulled away, his taillights receding into the dark.
I turned, heart still galloping, and faced home.
---
The lakeside mansion was alive even in silence. A cluster of maids waited by the door, bowing their heads as I entered. Their uniforms whispered against marble floors. The chandeliers scattered rain-gold light across the vast hall where portraits of Halvern ancestors loomed in their gilded frames, watching me like judges of some forgotten trial.
I was halfway up the stairs when the voice stopped me.
"Chloe."
I froze, one hand on the banister. My mother stood in the hallway, framed by the glow of wall lamps. Viola Halvern — wrapped in a flowing nightdress of pale silk, hair pinned but half-fallen, lips pressed into the kind of thin smile that wasn't a smile at all.
"Why didn't you answer your phone?" she asked, arms folded. Her tone was not anger so much as weary control, the kind she wielded like a blade. "Do you realize how late it is? Again."
"Mother, please." I exhaled, already stepping further up.
"Are you still seeing that boy?" The words cracked like a whip.
I stopped. Turned halfway, irritation rising like a tide. "Stop bothering me. Stop being so damn nosy about my life. I'm a grown woman, not some little girl to be leashed."
Her eyes narrowed. "I worry about you, Chloe. Especially now. Lucian Freeman has escaped, the papers are calling him a phantom, a nightmare returned. You need security."
I laughed under my breath, sharp. "So that your security can report everything back to you? No. I'm with Elijah. He's enough to protect me."
Viola's composure faltered for just a moment, her lips parting as if to retort, but only anger sharpened her expression. "What is it with that boy? What do you even see in him?"
I lifted both hands in mock surrender, the exaggerated little gesture of a spoiled girl tired of lectures, wrists bent, palms up, face tilted with deliberate sass. Then, without another word, I turned and walked up the rest of the stairs.
Behind me, silence — except the soft crack of my heels. I didn't need to look to know Viola's face had twisted into that familiar mixture of anger and pain.
---
She ended up in the home theater, a single figure sprawled in one of the leather seats, wine glass tilted in her fingers. The giant screen glowed faintly with muted images of some old film she wasn't watching. Each sip deepened the shadows under her eyes.
Then came the growl of another engine. Outside, gravel crunched, and a sleek Maserati slid to a stop. Viola's blurred gaze tracked the sound through memory more than sight.
The door opened, and William Halvern stepped out. Fifty, but still devastatingly handsome, in that way rich men carried themselves as if time itself had been bought and paid for. His suit hung open, tie loosened. From the passenger side emerged a beauty much younger, dark hair tumbling down her back, laughter spilling into the night.
"Your place is really cozy," the girl said as William guided her inside with a hand firm around her waist.
Maids appeared at once, but William's glare dismissed them. He pressed the girl against the wall, mouth devouring hers. Their giggles filled the hallway, echoing through the mansion like a violation.
Viola sat frozen, the theater's shadows cloaking her. She could see them, though — see her husband's hand sliding shamelessly, hear his chuckle, the wet kiss.
Once, I thought marrying him was the crown of my life, she thought bitterly. Now I know better. William Halvern is just another sociopath playboy, cut from the same filth as his father, Theodore.
The name alone soured her stomach, darkened her mood. She emptied her glass.
Meanwhile, William pulled the girl closer, her legs locking around his waist, kissing her as if the world owed him indulgence.
"Isn't this risky?" the girl whispered between breaths. "Your wife, your daughter—"
"I don't care," William murmured, teeth grazing her jaw. "I've had enough stress from all these goddamn media scandals. Azaqor killer this, Halvern conspiracies that. Let them choke on it. I need something real. Hell, even the thought of Viola watching me right now would turn me on."
Viola flinched, clutching the armrest so tightly her nails whitened. The sound of her husband's moans, the girl's laughter, each one stabbed through her bitterness.
She drank again.
---
By dawn, Crestwood's skyline burned with steel and glass. At the heart of it rose the Halvern Consortium's newest jewel: the AI research facility. All chrome angles, transparent walls, and a humming labyrinth of machines that whispered the future. Inside, rows of robots stood like soldiers in waiting, their limbs jointed with polished alloy, eyes dim until awoken by code.
Elijah stood among them, sleeves rolled up, directing a small team of engineers as they ran diagnostics. Sparks flickered as one of the humanoid prototypes lifted its arm, gears whirring, mimicking human movement with eerie precision.
Then the air shifted. Viola entered.
She was dressed to perfection: a tailored ivory blouse with pearl buttons, high-waisted trousers of midnight silk, diamond earrings that glinted beneath the cold white light. The attire of a woman who knew she belonged to old money — and wanted no one to forget it.
"Give us a moment," she told the engineers, her voice smooth but brooking no refusal.
They exchanged quick looks, then obeyed, their footsteps fading.
Elijah turned, polite, posture loose but alert. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Halvern?"
Her jaw tightened. "I'll cut to the chase. Leave my daughter alone. The situation isn't safe. Chloe needs her family, not some hotheaded boy playing protector."
Elijah's eyes held hers, calm, respectful — but firm. "With all due respect, ma'am, I love Chloe. And she loves me. It's her choice who she seeks comfort from. I'd hope her mother would respect that."
The words struck like stones. Viola's hand twitched. Rage coiled in her chest — how dare he speak to her that way? She raised her hand to slap him.
But he caught her wrist mid-air.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then that smirk. God, that smirk — the corner of his lips tilting just enough to ignite fury. The look of a young man who knew he was untouchable.
He drew her closer, so near his breath touched her ear. "Love," he whispered, low and dangerous, "is something you'll never understand. Not when even your husband no longer gives it to you."
Her body stiffened. Eyes widened. How could he know?
"Chloe told me," Elijah breathed. His lips nearly brushed her skin.
A shiver tore through her. She hated it — hated the heat rushing to her cheeks, the erratic hammering of her chest. She pulled back, but his presence clung like smoke.
"Stop—" she began.
But Elijah's mouth crashed against hers.
It was brutal, intoxicating. His hands gripped her waist, slid lower, fingers pressing into forbidden places. His lips bit hers, parted them, dragged her into a rhythm she couldn't resist. Her knees weakened, her breath faltered. She wanted to push him away, yet her body betrayed her, answering the kiss with equal hunger.
For one delirious moment, she let herself drown.
When they broke apart, her lips throbbed, her mind a blur.
Elijah's voice was rough, unwavering. "I've always wanted you. William will never love you. But I can. I will. Be mine."
Her breath shuddered. "What about Chloe?"
"She doesn't need to know." His hand cupped her face, eyes boring into hers. "This will stay between us. Our secret."
"It's wrong," Viola whispered. Her voice shook, half-plea, half-confession. "I shouldn't—"
His hands tightened around her waist. "It's okay."
Their eyes locked, tension sparking into something darker. Viola's lips parted, not in refusal now, but in silent surrender.
---
Night again. The penthouse smelled of garlic and rosemary. I stood in the kitchen, stirring pasta, humming faintly to myself. When Elijah walked in, I turned at once, smiling.
He looked exhausted, shoulders heavy, tie crooked.
I crossed the space, kissed him lightly on the lips. "You're more tired than usual," I said softly.
"Long shift," he answered, slipping off his shoes. His tone was casual, but something in his eyes flickered.
I leaned closer, and there it was — a faint scent, sweet, intoxicating, undeniably feminine. Perfume. It clung to him like a ghost. My mind jolted with recognition, though the thought slipped away before I could seize it.
I frowned.
Elijah caught the look instantly. "How's your father holding up with the strikes?" he asked, too quickly.
The subject shift worked. I sighed, turning back to the stove. "He's fine. But investors are quiet. Too quiet. They've been skipping board meetings. It could mean distance, disloyalty. Bad signs."
Elijah came up behind me, his hand curling around mine. "It's okay. I'm here. You're not alone."
I let myself breathe. His presence was solid, reassuring, even if shadows clung at the edges.
"Did Aubrey call again?" he asked.
"Yes. Sent me a text. She wants to meet with the other survivors. Some place in Crestwood."
"I'll go with you." His voice was final, unquestionable.
I kissed his cheek. "Then go take a shower. You need it."
He smiled faintly, turning away. I watched him walk toward the bedroom.
And just for a split second, as his back was to me, I saw it: the flicker of something guilty in his face, twisted into determination as quickly as it came. A shadow, gone in an instant.
I blink
ed, almost doubting myself.
Then the water ran in the distance, and the kitchen filled with the hiss of simmering pasta, the faint heartbeat of our fragile normalcy.