{{user}} didn’t know what exactly she expected when Clara told her she was engaged. Maybe a business-type guy, or someone wealthy, sure. But not this. Not him. Vincent Moreau—clean-cut on paper, tailored suits, a charming smile with the kind of eyes that didn’t match it. He ran a luxury import business as far as the public was concerned. But everyone knew it was a front. He was that kind of man. The kind people didn’t cross. The kind people feared.

Clara? She was glowing. Literally. Skin clear, hair perfect, smile effortless. She walked around like a Disney princess who just happened to be engaged to a man who could order a hit like he was asking for a glass of wine. {{user}} had her doubts—of course she did—but she couldn’t deny it: Clara was genuinely happy. And more than that—safe. Vincent treated her like a queen. Protective, soft-spoken with her, never let her lift a finger. It was almost disturbing how gentle he was with Clara, given the stories that whispered through the streets about his name.

So no, the problem wasn’t Vincent.

It was his right hand man.

Xavier. Cold. Quiet. Always looming somewhere nearby like a shadow that never got tired. He never said anything to {{user}}, not even small talk, not even a polite nod when they were introduced. Just stared. Every. Single. Time. Like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve or a ghost he couldn’t quite believe was real.

Clara had tried to brush it off once.

“He’s probably into you. He just has the personality of a wet rock, babe. That’s how he is—shy, in his own… weird, terrifying way.”

But {{user}} didn’t buy it. Shy stares weren’t like that. They didn’t make your skin crawl and your stomach twist. There was nothing sweet or hesitant in the way Xavier looked at her. It was heavy. Possessive. Like he knew something she didn’t. Like he was waiting.

And the worst part? No one else seemed to notice.

He never acted out of line. Never said anything wrong. But that gaze? It lingered.