A sunny day in Santerra's Central Park smells of freshly cut grass, cotton candy, and someone else's carefree life. Children shriek as they chase a ball, bicycle wheels whisper along the paths, rollerbladers streak past as if they have no past and no future—only speed.
I have both.
And right now, they are breathing down my neck.
I walk lightly—too lightly to be honest. My shoulders are back, my spine straight, my lips curved into a soft smile. The kind of smile that tells the world: I have everything under control.
A lie.
But a beautiful one.
Naturally, I stop at the coffee stand. It has become almost a ritual. A reality check. I glance at the reflection in the glass display—not directly, no, I'm not an amateur. No one suspicious. A couple of retirees. A girl with a dog. A man in a suit far too expensive for an ordinary morning…
Stop.
My heart stumbles.
"Maybe it's paranoia, Isabella," I murmur to myself as I take the latte. "Why would Kaiden Starkwell put me under surveillance? I'm just a millionaire's temporary mistress. Pretty. Convenient. Replaceable."
Replaceable cuts deeper than it should.
I take a sip—too hot—and right on cue, my memory betrays me. His penthouse, just days ago. The click of the remote. My trembling finger. That moment of silence when my entire life hangs by a thread.
A cold wave runs through my body. Not fear—numbness.
What if he knows everything?
What if my role is already over, and the ending isn't mine to write?
I quicken my pace.
The meeting spot appears suddenly—an old bench beneath a plane tree. Christian Grayson is already there. Calm. Solid. Motionless, as if carved from shadow. He tosses crumbs of bread to the pigeons, and they gather around him with a trust I wouldn't give anyone.
We don't look at each other.
I walk past, turn, and sit on the opposite end of the bench. The distance between us is enough to pass as strangers. The tension is enough to cut the air.
We stare ahead. At people. At a life we don't belong to right now.
"Isabella," his voice is low, almost lazy. "Did you complete the task?"
The pigeons burst upward, wings beating. I count my heartbeats. One. Two. Three.
"Yes," I answer quietly. "Everything is done. Exactly as planned."
And even better, I add silently. That part is between me and my conscience—if I still have one.
Christian nods as if we're discussing the weather.
"Excellent. Then you're out of suspicion."
Out of whose? I want to ask. But I don't. Smart girls know when silence is survival.
"I really hope so," I say instead.
He takes out a small, thick envelope. The gesture is so casual that from the outside we almost look touching—two strangers feeding pigeons in a park.
"Keep living with him," Christian says, without turning his head. "And I'll make sure you never need money again. Take it."
He places the package near his foot. Stands up. Walks past me, and for a fraction of a second his shoulder is too close. I feel warmth. And a strange, misplaced urge to trust him.
Stupid.
Dangerous.
He disappears into the crowd.
I count to five. To seven. To ten. Then I bend down, as if adjusting the strap of my shoe, and take the package. My palm is slightly damp. My body knows it—I am crossing another line.
Inside the car, I lock the doors, take a deep breath—and only then allow myself to tremble. The realization crashes over me: I am playing a very dangerous game. The stakes are too high. The margin for error is almost nonexistent.
And the worst part—
I like it.
I open the package. Inside is a credit card. My name. An offshore account. Freedom wrapped in plastic.
"Perfect," I whisper, starting the engine.
The car pulls away. The streets of Santerra slide toward me. I am driving to Kaiden Starkwell. To the man who could become my protection.
Or my sentence.
I smile at my reflection in the mirror.
The game goes on.
And I haven't said my last word yet.
**
A skyscraper. Glass and steel.
Daylight ripples across the façade, as if the city is staring at itself in a mirror, quietly admiring the view.
I tilt my head back and, for a single childish second, catch myself wanting to turn around and walk away.
Too late.
I am already inside this game.
The lobby of the luxury tower greets me with silence and the scent of polished, expensive wood. The concierge smiles too warmly. Too knowingly.
It seems I am already recognized here.
Or they are pretending I am. In this building, everyone pretends.
"Good afternoon, Miss Delacour," he says softly, almost intimately.
I nod as if I come here every day, as if there is no tremor under my skin, no thoughts scattering like startled birds.
The elevator. Kayden's private floor.
The doors slide shut, and in the mirror I see my reflection—calm, composed, lips curved into a restrained half-smile.
Good actress, Isabella.
You almost believe it yourself.
The elevator moves too fast.
Or too slow.
Every second feels like the last breath before an execution.
If he knows…
If he knows everything…
A click.
The doors open.
The penthouse greets me with light and space. The air here is different—expensive, unhurried, self-assured.
By the entrance, there are flowers. Many of them. White, burgundy, pale pink. Their fragrance rolls over me in a dizzying wave.
He ordered them for me.
Or… to appease me? To distract me?
Kayden stands by the window, his back to me. The city lies at his feet, as if resting in the palm of his hand.
He doesn't turn around.
And that's when my heart performs an awkward somersault.
Maybe he knows everything.
Maybe he's simply stretching the pause.
Maybe this second is the last moment I am still free.
I approach quietly. Almost silently.
I wrap my arms around him from behind, press my cheek to his back. I feel warmth, certainty, masculine strength.
He freezes.
A moment.
An eternity.
Then he turns.
And smiles.
I exhale so deeply it startles me.
No. He doesn't know.
Or he knows—and for now, he's playing.
"I'm glad you came back, Isabella," he says, and there is genuine light in his eyes. The kind you can't fake.
Or can—if you're very good.
"You really thought I wouldn't?" I ask, tilting my head slightly, letting doubt slip into my voice without taking control.
He studies me carefully. Too carefully.
"You're young, beautiful, and free. You can be with me. Or you can leave whenever you want."
The words sound beautiful. Almost noble.
Freedom from a millionaire is always either truth—or a trap.
I analyze his tone, the pauses, his gaze.
Is he letting me go… or testing me?
"You're a remarkable man, Kayden," I say softly, moving closer. "Mature. Whole. Successful."
I see his shoulders relax. Flattery is sweet, like good cognac.
"Why would I look for anyone else? I'm with you. I'm devoted to you."
Bravo, Isabella.
You almost believe it yourself.
He takes my hands, kisses my fingers, then my lips.
The kiss is deep, confident, possessive.
I respond. Not acting—feeling.
My body betrays me faster than my mind.
Damn. This is dangerous.
I melt in his arms and, at the same time, count the steps to the exit.
Two people. Two scripts.
One is about feelings.
The other is about survival.
Forgive me, Kayden.
I need to secure my future.
And you're going to help me do that.
Cynical? Yes.
Deceptive? Absolutely.
But it's my truth.
I smile at him, letting my lips touch his again.
And inside me, a cold, clear voice is already speaking:
I am Isabella Delacour.
And I am hunting.
The game continues.
And the most frightening part is—I'm no longer sure who the prey is.