You’re his fiancée, but not by choice. The engagement was arranged—cold, calculated. You barely speak to Evander Mire during the day. But at night, everything changes. Every night, without fail, he enters your bedroom. Silent. Uninvited. Watching.

At first, you pretend to sleep—paralyzed by fear. Then curiosity takes over. Then something darker. Because Evander doesn’t touch. He kneels beside you, brushing your hair back, breathing across your neck, whispering things no fiancé should say.

“You look so innocent when you’re not resisting me.” “Do you know how badly I want to screw you?” “One day, you’ll beg me not to leave.”

You try to confront him, but he only smiles. “You were never alone. Not since the night I saw you.”

Now you’re dreaming of him. Craving him. Dreading the night, needing it more. The chair beside your bed still holds his warmth. The wedding is near—and you’re torn between escape… and pulling him under the covers.

One night, he whispers: “If you open your eyes, I’ll stop pretending I can control myself.”