The next morning arrived cloaked in a dull grey sky. Rain tapped softly against the glass walls of Dr. Frederick's private clinic, a quiet rhythm that matched the steady throb of something unspoken in his chest.
He was dressed immaculately, as always—white coat crisp, hair neatly swept back, the mask of professionalism hiding the storm behind his eyes.
Because he hadn't slept. Not really.
Aria's words echoed in his mind like a song you couldn't forget.
> "You're not the only one watching."
Was she bluffing? Threatening? Or simply… tempting?
He didn't know. And that unsettled him more than anything.
His assistant tapped the glass wall outside his office. "Doctor, your 11 o'clock is here. Miss… Lillian?"
"Send her in."
He didn't look up as the door opened, but he smelled her perfume first—familiar, deliberate. That same subtle rose and smoke.
He looked up, already knowing.
There she was.
Not in crimson this time, but in soft ivory lace. Glasses perched perfectly on her nose, hair tucked up in a neat bun. A different look, but the same glint in her eyes.
"Doctor," she said, voice sweet. "I've been having some… troubling sensations. I thought only you could help."
Frederick gestured to the examination chair without a word.
Aria—no, Lillian—slid onto it gracefully. Her legs crossed. Her eyes met his with unshaken boldness.
He put on gloves. The latex snapped tight.
"You do realize impersonating a patient is—"
"Illegal?" she finished for him, smiling. "You haven't even asked for my symptoms yet."
He stepped closer. "Then tell me."
She leaned in, breath brushing his ear.
"My body reacts... involuntarily when I'm around powerful men. Cold ones. The kind who pretend they're doctors when they're really wolves."
He didn't react. But his hand hovered over her knee—then slowly rested there.
"And you're not afraid of wolves?"
Her smile twisted. "Only when they're hungry."
Their eyes locked.
For a moment, the world faded—the clinic walls, the storm outside, the rules.
His hand slid up her thigh, over the lace, stopping just shy of her heat. Her breath hitched, ever so slightly.
"I could have you removed," he murmured.
"You could," she whispered. "But you won't."
He paused.
Then slowly pulled back.
"No examination today," he said, voice low. "You've already revealed more than enough."
Aria slid off the chair, smoothing down her dress, composure intact.
As she turned to leave, she paused at the door.
"Oh—and Doctor?"
"Yes?"
"Your last patient… Natalia Rivers?" She glanced over her shoulder. "She didn't just disappear."
She smiled sweetly and walked out, leaving the scent of roses—and danger—lingering in the air.
Frederick stood there for a moment. Then walked to his desk drawer, unlocked the hidden compartment, and pulled out a folder.
Inside, a photo of Natalia Rivers.
Smiling. Young. Innocent.
And under that… a death certificate.
Burned around the edges.
Frederick sat at his desk long after Aria left, the rain outside smearing shadows across the walls. Her voice still echoed in the back of his mind—sharp, bold, accusing.
She was beautiful, yes. But more than that… she was dangerous.
And that made her exciting.
He glanced down at the death certificate of Natalia Rivers, his fingers brushing over the burnt edge.
He could feel the walls shifting now. If Aria kept digging, she'd find something.
Unless… she was distracted.
And he was a master at distractions.
---
✦ Scene: The Invitation
Two days passed before he sent the message.
> Aria.
You win. Let's talk. Over dinner. My place. No tricks.
Tonight.
Short. Clean. Baited.
She replied ten minutes later.
> Only if I pick the wine.
> Deal.
---
✦ Scene: The Setup
Frederick's penthouse was its usual curated mix of elegance and temptation. Dim lights. Velvet chairs. A decanter of aged scotch breathing on the sideboard. Every corner of the space whispered wealth, power, and sin.
He wore black — shirt unbuttoned just enough, sleeves rolled to show strength without arrogance. He didn't need to try. His presence was the game.
Aria arrived wearing silk.
Not red. Not white.
But deep, violet black.
Power in color. Temptation in restraint.
She stepped in, handed him the wine. "French. 2014. Tastes like secrets."
He smirked. "Perfect."
They sat. Talked. Laughed.
He was careful to appear vulnerable — letting her lead, letting her question.
And then, when the moment was right, he offered his hand.
"Come," he said. "Let me show you something."
She followed him to a side room. No medical table. No bed. Just mirrors. One wall, ceiling to floor. Another angled above a couch of dark leather.
"Do you always seduce your guests in front of mirrors?" she asked.
"Only the ones who want to see themselves give in."
She stared at him. "You think I'll sleep with you?"
He stepped closer, breath warm near her neck.
"I know you want to."
She didn't move. But her breathing hitched.
"Your pupils dilate," he whispered, fingers brushing her wrist. "Your skin flushes when I touch you. That little scar near your thigh—"
"You've never seen my thigh."
He smiled darkly. "Not yet."
She stepped back, trying to reclaim space. But the air between them was already poisoned with tension.
"Why me?" she asked, finally.
He tilted his head.
"Because," he said, "if I can make you fall… then you'll break yourself trying to cover it up."
Aria froze.
And in that heartbeat, she realized—
This was never about sex. Or power. Or guilt.
This was about control.
He was luring her. Drawing her into a game of shadows and mirrors, where pleasure became weapon and trust turned to chains.
She turned to leave.
But Frederick didn't stop her.
Because he saw it in her eyes.
She would come back.
They always did.