Victoria's call came through quickly, her voice edged with concern as she yelled.
"Josephine, what happened?"
Josephine recounted everything with dangerous clarity.
Victoria didn't believe it still. "You've been under too much pressure. You drank last night, too. Vivid nightmares are completely normal. Get some proper rest today. I'll book you an appointment with a holistic physician later—this has to be a hormonal imbalance combined with nervous exhaustion... or something."
Josephine knew it wasn't that––Victoris was simply brushing her off again.
But the surveillance footage showed nothing.
Fragments of memory—faint, distant, deliberately suppressed—surfaced in her mind. They seemed to urge her not to dig further.
As if warning her: let it pass in confusion, and you won't be harmed in the long run.
In the end, she only answered softly, "Yeah... alright."
The call ended.
Silence returned to the room.
Josephine sat on the floor hugging her knees. Slowly, she lifted a hand and touched the bite mark on her left shoulder.
A sharp, very real sting answered her touch.
Was it really… just a nightmare? A vivid nightmare?
Then why was the pain so clear? Why were the marks so visible? Why did her body still carry that lingering, foreign sensation she couldn't erase?
She buried her face into her knees, her shoulders trembling uncontrollably.
The hotel suite was utterly silent. Only her breathing filled the air.
Yet the marks and sensations left by the dream existed undeniably—like a violent brand pressed into her skin.
A silent declaration that the chaotic entanglement of last night had not been an illusion.
She didn't know when she drifted off again.
Almost the instant her consciousness blurred, sensation descended once more.
The surface beneath her felt different—firmer than the hotel mattress.
That cold, sharp fragrance flooded her senses once more.
Her heart sank.
She forced her eyes open, struggling to focus in the dim light.
Above her was dark fabric woven with a faint sheen, thin light seeping through narrow gaps.
She lay on her side. Her cheek rested against something warm and smooth.
Then, as it rose and fell slowly beneath her, she realized—it wasn't a bed.
It was a broad, muscular chest.
In that instant, Josephine's blood seemed to freeze her vessels solid.
Stiffly, she lifted her gaze upward.
She still could not see the man's face clearly. Yet even in sleep, he radiated the untouchable authority of a predator at rest.
His breathing was deep and steady.
And she... At some point, her white hotel bathrobe had loosened, barely concealing her body. Her bare skin pressed directly against his chest.
Glancing down, she saw that her missing silk nightdress lay crushed beneath him, reduced to torn strips of fabric.
So it had happened for real.
It had all been real.
And her ruined nightdress was here—with him.
She was terrifyingly awake.
Where was this place? Who was he? A ghost? Sleep paralysis? Something worse?
She tried to move, to flee from the couch, but her body was pinned in place by some invisible force. Even her fingertips could not twitch.
Only her eyes could move, darting fearfully around the unfamiliar space.
Old regal furnishings. A burned-down candelabrum. A cool, lingering fragrance in the air.
And the man she lay against—long hair spilling across the pillow like streams of water.
Everything pointed toward a chilling conclusion.
Just then, he stirred almost imperceptibly––as though disturbed, but not yet fully awake.
Only then did Josephine realize that one of his arms had been draped around her waist all along.
Unconsciously, it tightened, drawing her closer.
His palm, faintly calloused, rested against her side through the loosened robe.
The heat of it seeped through the thin fabric, scalding her.
Slowly, he lifted his eyelids.
He seemed to register the weight and warmth in his arms. Tilting his head slightly, he looked down.
Josephine lay curled against his chest, looking up at him. At such close distance, she could even feel the heat of his breath.
Even now, she could not see his face clearly. It was as if he were shrouded in dense mist.
Yet the intensity of his gaze was unmistakable.
She trembled under that unseen scrutiny, feeling impossibly weak and small.
A faint hum of amusement escaped him, his voice hoarse with the roughness of just waking.
"How interesting… This gift is livelier than the one they sent last night."
She didn't understand what he meant.
But the tone—like one assessing an unexpected plaything—made her instinctively want to escape.
The hand at her waist began to move.
His fingertips traced the curve of her waistline, sliding unhurriedly from her side to the small of her back.
The motion was idle, exploratory—confirming the contours beneath his palm.
The bathrobe was already loose; his fingers slipped easily past its edge, brushing the bare skin of her back.
"Mm…"
A small, involuntary sound left her throat.
Fear—and the uncontrollable tremor that came when unfamiliar touch invaded her body.
She wanted to retreat.
But she couldn't move at all.
The sound of her struggle seemed to please him—or perhaps stir something already restless within him.
She felt his attention sharpen, darken.
"Where did these clothes come from?" he asked lazily, his voice carrying a sensual languor.
Josephine couldn't answer. Her mind was in chaos, too overwhelmed to process anything.
His hand left her back and casually pushed aside the robe's already inadequate front.
Cool air brushed her exposed skin at the same time as his heated gaze.
Josephine squeezed her eyes shut. Tears of shame and fear slid from the corners of her eyes.
She could feel his gaze traveling—across her neck, her collarbone, the rise of her chest... Until it stopped at the bite mark on her left shoulder.
His fingertip pressed against it without gentleness, tracing the bruised swelling and the half-healed wound.
She sucked in a breath at the pain, her body tightening further.
"Why are you crying?" he asked in a raspy whisper. "Does it hurt?"
She opened her misted eyes, her throat constricted, unable to form words.
Her tears and trembling seemed to ignite something final within him.
With a single movement, he rolled and easily pinned her beneath him.
His heavy body pressed down, trapping her between himself and the soft brocade cushions.
His bare chest pressed against her robe-clad body, his temperature shockingly high.
At last, she could move again—but barely.
Her hands instinctively pushed against his chest.
"Don't… let me go… please… Are you a ghost?"
"A ghost?" He seemed amused by the word.
Lowering his head, his nose nearly brushed hers. His unseen gaze bore down on her, cruel and faintly entertained.
"That is a new title. Usually, they call me Devil."