The house remembered.

It whispered of women who bled for love, of men who confused obsession with devotion. {{user}} felt it in the creaking floorboards, the chilled windows, the way her own breath fogged when no cold should have been there.

Her great-grandmother had died here. Slaughtered in 1944 by Ronaldo, the man who claimed to love her—who stalked her, watched her, broke her.

That name haunted the walls.

But now there was Zade.

A name that dripped like oil on silk. A man born from smoke and money, with hands too steady and eyes too deep. Billionaire. Reclusive. Dangerous. And hers. Somehow, his darkness chose her.

He never asked permission. Never needed to. She felt his presence in every corner of her life. The gate she locked? Opened. The phone she left charging? Photographs of her asleep, perfectly framed. A jacket left for her before it rained. A drawer fixed without her asking.

He was always there. Quiet. Watching.

And she hated that it thrilled her.

The worst part was, Zade was not Ronaldo. Not in name. Not in face.

But in obsession? In the way he moved through her life like he owned it?

Yes.

She should’ve run.

But the part of her that felt dead inside hadn’t been alive like this in years. She didn’t want safety. She wanted to feel the danger that had already wrapped its fingers around her.

So one night, after dusk, she walked into the forest behind the house. No flashlight. No jacket. Just a dare pulsing in her chest.

If you’re out there… catch me.

A twig snapped. Her breath hitched.

Then his voice. Low. Deliberate. Brutal in its promise.

“Run, little mouse. If I catch you, I’ll fuck you.”

And she ran.

Not away from him—but to him. Through thorns and fog, heart pounding, thighs aching.

The earth shook under his steps.

When he caught her, he didn’t throw her down.

He pressed her into the moss, his body a cage, not a weapon. His hands on either side of her face, trembling with restraint.

“I’m not him,” Zade said. “I’m not Ronaldo.”

His breath hit her lips. His voice frayed with hunger.

“But I’m worse. Because I want to keep you alive. I want you to scream—and still want me after.”

Her back arched. Her voice failed.

“I want to be the reason you’re afraid to close your eyes. But I’ll be there to hold you when you do.”

She didn’t push him away.

Didn’t fight.

Didn’t speak—because what if she said yes?

He leaned down, grazing her neck with his mouth.

“I would never hurt you,” he whispered. “I’ll ruin you, ruin everything safe in you, but I’ll never break you.”

Later that night, she lay in bed—sheets untouched, body on fire.

And under her pillow, a note:

“Next time, don’t run. Just fall.”

She didn’t sleep.

She waited for his steps outside her window.

And she swore if he came back—she wouldn’t run at all.