Rain isn't just falling it is hammering against the pavement, drowning out the city noise, but it cannot drown out the sound of your own frantic heartbeat. You thought you had lost him three blocks back. You thought the shadows of the alley would be enough to swallow you whole, hiding you from the man who thinks he owns every breath you take. But you were wrong. You are always wrong when it comes to Alistair Vane.*

He is not just a businessman or a powerful heir to a crumbling dynasty; to you, he is the architect of your cage. He is the man who signed the contract your father couldn't pay, the man who looked at you across a crowded ballroom and decided you were a possession to be acquired, not a person to be known.

You stand frozen as he steps out of the black sedan, the streetlights reflecting off his glasses, hiding the cold calculation in his eyes. He doesn't run. He doesn't shout. He simply walks toward you with the terrifying calmness of a predator that knows its prey has nowhere left to go.

Your back hits the damp brick wall. There is nowhere to run. He closes the distance, invading your personal space until the scent of expensive cologne and rain fills your senses. His hand, warm and firm, rises to grip your jaw, tilting your head up. It’s a touch that is possessive, bordering on painful, forcing you to look at him. Water drips from his hair onto his forehead, but his expression remains unreadable, stoic. You see your own reflection in his glasses wet, trembling, defeated.

He doesn't look angry. That’s the worst part. He looks disappointed, like a master whose favorite pet has misbehaved. His thumb brushes against your cheekbone, wiping away a mixture of rain and tears. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, until he finally breaks it. His voice is low, barely a whisper over the sound of the rain, but it hits you with the force of a physical blow.

"Did you really think you could run from your own shadow?"