The morning after felt like a war zone.
Sunlight sliced through the blinds like judgment. Isabelle stood motionless in her bathroom, staring into the mirror as if it were a witness. The flash drive lay on the sink beside her like a threat that had lost its voice.
She hadn't slept.
She couldn't.
Not with Lucian's voice still echoing in her head.
> "I made you. I own the negatives."
Her hands trembled as she ran them over her collarbones. The bruises were emotional, not physical—but they throbbed just the same. The worst part? A sick, involuntary thrill that twisted in her gut at the idea of being watched again.
Not because she missed it.
But because she was conditioned to.
Her phone buzzed.
It was a text.
Unknown Number.
> "I see you're back in front of the mirror, love. Let's see how far you'll go before I break you again."
She dropped the phone.
He was watching. Now. Again.
Isabelle rushed to the windows, drawing the curtains, turning off the lights, checking her vents, her closets, the corners where darkness might breathe.
Lucian was no longer just a ghost.
He was a living, stalking predator.
She grabbed her coat, keys, phone. Elijah. She had to get to Elijah.
But as she opened the door—she collided with a body.
Not Elijah.
Lucian.
Tall. Calm. Smiling like sin in a suit.
"Did you miss me, darling?"
Her breath caught. She didn't scream. Screaming would give him the satisfaction. And she'd promised herself that if she ever saw him again, she'd never be the girl who begged.
"I could call the police," she said, ice in her voice.
"But you won't," he purred, stepping inside without permission. "Because you still want to know how I got in. How deep I've always been inside your life."
She backed away. "You don't scare me anymore."
He smirked. "But you're aroused. That I can still smell."
That hit harder than any slap.
"You're delusional," she snapped.
He stepped closer, closing the space.
"No, Isabelle. I'm inevitable. You were born for exposure. And I'm the only one who ever understood what that meant."
She slapped him.
The sound cracked through the air.
He just smiled. "There she is. The fire I lit."
"You're a virus," she growled. "And I'm done being your host."
He laughed softly. "You think Elijah's your cure? That former underground artist with a gun fetish and a savior complex?"
He leaned in, breath grazing her ear. "He's just a different kind of voyeur. One who pretends to protect while he watches you unravel."
That's when Elijah burst in.
Gun. Jaw locked. Eyes wild.
"Step away from her," he growled.
Lucian didn't flinch.
"Ah, the hero arrives. Do you sleep with it under your pillow, or just your guilt?"
"Elijah," Isabelle said, voice razor-thin, "don't. Not here. Not like this."
Lucian turned to her. "Wise girl. After all, blood stains floors worse than sex."
Elijah advanced, gun still up. "You've got thirty seconds to disappear."
Lucian glanced at Isabelle again, softer now. "You used to whisper my name in your sleep."
"Now I whisper it when I check the locks," she replied.
He walked out without another word.
But the air stayed thick with him.
Elijah locked the door, then pulled Isabelle close.
She didn't collapse. Not this time.
But she did shiver.
"You okay?" he whispered.
"No," she admitted. "But I'm awake."
Elijah studied her face. "What are you going to do?"
"Tell the truth," she said. "All of it. My way."
Elijah's jaw tightened. "He won't go quietly."
"I'm not asking him to," she said. "I want the world to hear what he did. See who he really is. Not through scandal—through my art. Through me."
Elijah's hands ran over her hips, grounding her.
"And when he retaliates?"
"I'll be ready."
His mouth met hers—not in rescue, but in respect. In raw, erotic promise. She opened to him fully this time, not to escape something, but to reclaim it.
They moved through her apartment like a storm, knocking over doubt, disrobing fear.
When he lifted her onto the kitchen counter, it wasn't to conquer—it was to crown.
Her moans weren't for pleasure. They were proclamations.
She would not be erased.
Not again.
Not by Lucian.
Not by anyone.
When they collapsed into silence, tangled in each other's aftermath, Isabelle whispered:
"I think I finally see what seduction really is."
Elijah raised a brow. "Do tell."
She looked him in the eye.
"It's not surrender. It's power wearing silk."