I felt it my whole life, someone watching. Him, I wasn't being watched.
I was seen.
Prologue
The dining room felt too quiet, too still.
She sat at the long table, hands clasped in her lap, trying to steady the sudden flutter in her chest. The chandelier's light glinted off the silverware, but it did nothing to warm the chill crawling up her spine. Something was coming—she could feel it—but she didn't know what.
The door opened.
She looked up slowly.
He stepped inside. Tall. Dark. The kind of man who seemed to bend the room to his presence without a word. Black suit, sharp lines, posture impossibly straight. And then his eyes found her.
They lingered.
Not curious. Not casual. Deliberate. Heavy. Enough to make her suddenly aware of every movement, every breath, every heartbeat. Her fingers pressed harder into her lap as heat rose to her cheeks. She felt… naked beneath his gaze, though she wore the same clothes she had worn all morning.
She looked away first. She couldn't help it. And yet, even looking down, she could feel the pressure of his attention, sharp as a blade.
Footsteps clicked behind her.
Her mother appeared, smiling like everything was ordinary, standing beside him as if she belonged there.
"There's something I need to tell you," her mother said softly.
Her heart thudded.
"We're getting married."
The words hung in the air.
She turned her eyes back to him. His gaze hadn't wavered. Closer now—or perhaps it only felt that way. The faintest shift of his stance, the deliberate tilt of his head, made her aware of herself in ways she hadn't expected. The room had shrunk, the space between them electric.
And she realized, with a sudden jolt of fear… this wasn't just about her mother.
Avery's POV
'you know... If I had a step dad that hot, we'd probably have a kid by now' Lila said dreamily.
My chest skipped a beat.
I didn't look up. I could feel him—the memory of his gaze, deep brown and unrelenting, lingering in my mind. There was a sharp thrill in that memory, a small shiver that ran down my spine. I hated that it affected me this way. Hated that my mom's husband affected me this way.
"Lila…" I whispered, but even as I tried to scold my friend, I felt a flutter in my stomach. He was dangerous. I knew it. And yet… part of me wanted to feel it again. The weight of his attention. The way his eyes could make me feel exposed and alive all at once.
"That's what I said!" Lila laughed. "He's impossible. Admit it. You're thinking about him.
My cheeks burned. I did think about him—about the sharp lines of his face, the breadth of his shoulders, the quiet authority that seemed to bend the room to him. I hated myself for the thrill that tightened my chest, for the rush that came with imagining him watching, assessing, controlling.
"Impossible," I muttered to herself. "He's… impossible."
And deep down, I knew the truth: the impossibility, the danger, the control—that was exactly why I couldn't stop thinking about him.