Meadow's POV
The apartment didn't feel like somewhere a person lived.
It felt like a contingency plan given walls and furniture.
Everything was immaculate in a way that made my skin itch. No dust. No fingerprints. No sign that anyone had ever been careless or emotional here. The color palette was restrained to soft grays, muted creams, and black accents that felt intentional rather than comforting. The floor-to-ceiling windows curved around the living room, offering a sweeping view of the city below, glass towers, endless lights, movement without intimacy.
It was beautiful.
It was hollow.
I stood just inside the door, my suitcase upright beside my leg, my fingers still wrapped around the handle as if letting go would make this real in a way I wasn't ready for.
"This is insane," I muttered.
My voice sounded too loud in the quiet.
The woman Alaric had assigned to escort me, Elise, had already left. Efficient. Polite. Watchful. She'd shown me the security system, the emergency exits, the safe room tucked discreetly behind a panel I never would have noticed on my own.
Mr. Ashford values discretion, she'd said.
The phrasing hadn't been accidental.
I took a step farther into the apartment, then another. My footsteps echoed softly against polished floors that reflected my shape back at me in distorted fragments.
Two bedrooms.
One was clearly meant for me. The bed was made with crisp white linens, corners sharp enough to cut paper. The closet stood empty but spacious, waiting. On the nightstand sat a single vase holding white flowers, lilies, I thought. Unscented. Neutral. Noncommittal.
A courtesy, not a comfort.
The second bedroom door was closed.
Locked.
I stared at it for longer than I should have, then looked away.
Boundaries, already drawn.
I dropped my suitcase in the corner of my room without unpacking and wandered back into the living area. The couch was expensive,
minimalist, and utterly uninviting. I sat anyway, my spine rigid, my hands twisting together in my lap as the full weight of the last twenty-four hours finally settled.
I had said yes.
Not because I trusted Alaric Ashford.
Not because I wanted to be part of his war.
But because standing alone felt like a luxury I could no longer afford.
My phone buzzed.
I flinched before I could stop myself.
Unknown number.
You settled in?
I stared at the message, my pulse skidding. Of course he'd have my number already. Of course he'd know exactly when I arrived.
Just arrived, I typed back after a moment.
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
Good. Eat something.
I frowned at the screen.
That wasn't part of the agreement.
A pause.
It is now.
Despite myself, a soft, humorless laugh slipped out. Control. Always control. Even when he wasn't here, he occupied space in my head like he owned it.
I set the phone aside and went to the kitchen.
The refrigerator was stocked with unnerving precision. Fresh vegetables arranged by color. Bottled water lined up by size. Pre-made meals labeled neatly with dates and nutritional breakdowns.
This wasn't generosity.
It was management.
I grabbed one of the containers and ate standing at the counter, barely tasting the food. Each bite felt like something I hadn't earned. Borrowed comfort. Borrowed safety.
Afterward, I showered longer than necessary, letting the hot water beat against my skin as if it could rinse away the invisible fingerprints already forming around my life.
When I finally changed into pajamas and crawled into bed, exhaustion dragged at me, but sleep stayed just out of reach.
I stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, listening to the distant hum of traffic far below, and wondered how many nights Alaric Ashford had spent in places like this. Untethered.
Unattached. Always prepared to leave.
Just as my eyes began to close, my phone buzzed again.
Tomorrow. Seven p.m. Dinner.
My heart jumped.
What kind of dinner? I typed.
The reply came slower this time.
Public.
I swallowed hard.
I spent the entire next day suspended between numbness and nausea.
Elise returned midafternoon, punctual to the minute, carrying a garment bag and a shoebox. She didn't ask how I'd slept. Didn't comment on the circles under my eyes or the way my hands shook when I took the items from her.
The dress was black.
Simple, but unmistakably expensive. The cut was elegant without being modest, the fabric soft but structured. When I slipped it on and faced the mirror, the woman staring back at me looked composed in a way I didn't feel.
Polished.
Appropriate.
"You look acceptable," Elise said after assessing me critically.
"That's… comforting?" I offered weakly.
She didn't react. "Mr. Ashford will arrive at six forty-five."
And then she was gone.
At six forty-four, a knock sounded at the door.
I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and opened it.
Alaric Ashford filled the doorway like he belonged there.
Dark suit. Crisp shirt. No tie yet. His hair was neatly styled, his expression unreadable, his presence immediate and overwhelming. His gaze swept over me slowly, assessing, cataloging, before meeting my eyes again.
"You clean up well," he said.
I folded my arms. "You sound surprised."
"I'm not," he replied calmly. "I'm acknowledging."
That somehow made it worse.
He stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a muted click. The air shifted instantly, charged by his proximity.
"You ready?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be."
He nodded. "Remember…"
"I stay present," I said. "I know."
His eyes lingered on me for a beat too long, then he turned toward the door without another word.
The drive was silent.
Not awkward. Heavy.
The city passed in blurs of light and shadow as the car carried us deeper into unfamiliar territory. When we arrived, the restaurant was discreetly upscale, no sign outside, no obvious displays of wealth. Just quiet confidence.
Inside, heads turned.
Not dramatically. Not openly. But recognition rippled through the room all the same.
Alaric's hand settled at the small of my back, warm and steady.
"Relax," he murmured. "They're already watching."
"I don't like this," I whispered.
"You don't have to," he replied evenly. "You just have to endure it."
We were led to a glass-walled private section, visible enough to be noticed, insulated enough to be controlled. A calculated choice.
As we sat, Alaric leaned back in his chair, posture relaxed, gaze sharp.
"Rule one," he said quietly. "Don't look for Tyler."
My breath hitched. "He's here?"
"Not tonight," he said. "But people who report to him are."
My pulse raced. "So this is bait."
"Yes."
"And I'm…"
"The implication," he finished.
Dinner unfolded like a performance I hadn't rehearsed for. Alaric ordered without consulting me. He spoke when spoken to. He listened more than he talked. His attention never fully left me, even when he was engaged with someone else.
His hand remained at my back. His knee brushed mine beneath the table. When he leaned close to speak, his voice was low, meant only for me.
"You're doing well," he murmured.
"I feel like I'm going to pass out," I whispered back.
"Focus on me."
I did.
And that was the mistake.
Because focusing on Alaric meant noticing how grounded I felt when his attention was on me. How the noise of the room faded when he spoke. How easily my breathing synced to the calm rhythm of his presence.
It meant admitting that this wasn't just strategy anymore.
Halfway through the meal, I felt it.
The weight of a stare.
My chest tightened.
"Don't," Alaric murmured instantly.
"I didn't even look," I whispered.
"You don't need to," he said. "I felt it too."
"He knows," I said.
"Yes."
"That scares me."
"It should."
When we finally stood to leave, Alaric's hand slid decisively into mine. The gesture was deliberate. Claiming. Gasps rippled softly through the room.
I didn't look back.
The car ride home was taut with unspoken tension.
"You saw him," Alaric said quietly.
I nodded. "He looked… rattled."
"Good."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"It's not meant to."
Back at the apartment, the door closed behind us, sealing the space.
Alaric loosened his jacket, his movements precise. "You can go to bed," he said. "Tonight served its purpose."
I hesitated. "And you?"
"I'll leave."
The words surprised me.
"You don't have to," I said before I could stop myself.
He paused.
"I know," he said slowly. "But I should."
"Why?"
His gaze met mine, dark and searching. "Because proximity is a dangerous variable."
Silence stretched between us.
"Goodnight, Meadow," he said quietly.
He left.
And I stood there, alone in the quiet apartment, finally understanding the truth settling deep in my chest.
This wasn't just collateral damage.
This was proximity.
And it was already changing everything.