Chapter 1
1007 Words
There are two versions of my relationship with Alexander Warren.
In the first version, he is "Uncle Warren" from my fifteen-year-old memories, a god-like figure who descended at a winter party at my aunt's house.
He was dressed in an expensive custom-made suit, with a Vacheron Constantin watch on his wrist gleaming golden under the lights.
When I accidentally fell, he gently picked me up, lightly pinched my cheeks, and praised me for being "adorable."
The faint scent of tobacco and mint lingering on him became, for a time, the ultimate fantasy of a perfect man during my adolescence.
The second version, however, comes from my mother, and is more like a dark bedtime story, filled with warnings.
He was a predator who went through three failed marriages before turning forty, a dangerous man my mother strictly forbade me from approaching.
"Remember my words, Ellie," she once said to me with a seriousness I'd never seen before, "Wealth and power are his best disguise. But in reality, the things he destroys far exceed what he creates. His world is not a place you should venture into."
Today, amidst the chaos on the eve of my cousin's wedding, I ran into the second version of him—quite literally.
At Aunt Carol's estate, the air was filled with the aroma of lilies, baked cream, and a faint trace of panic.
Sunlight streamed through the tall French doors, casting mottled shadows on the floor.
I was carefully carrying a champagne tower made of countless crystal glasses, walking across the smooth, mirror-like hardwood floor.
I was so focused on the precariously balanced crystal pyramid that I was completely unprepared when I ran into that wall.
It was a wall made of muscles and an expensive charcoal-gray wool suit—firm, warm, with a steady, undeniable sense of presence.
A shockwave spread through my body, and the crystal glasses made a crisp yet dangerously ominous clinking sound, like wind chimes lamenting.
I gasped softly, staggering backward, on the verge of causing an immensely costly disaster.
At that instant, a pair of arms, firm as iron clamps, grabbed my upper arms, holding both me and the wobbling crystal tower securely in place. The strength was astonishing, devoid of warmth, exuding only pure control.
"Not watching where you're going?"
A deep, cold voice sounded above my head, tinged with irritation at being interrupted and an innate arrogance.
I caught a sharp scent of sandalwood and gin aroma, a distinctly masculine fragrance that instantly awakened buried memories and the accompanying fear.
I lifted my head, but the prepared apology caught in my throat, turning into a gasp of breathless astonishment. It was him.
After three years, Alexander Warren was still breathtakingly handsome.
His somewhat boyish features made him look younger than his actual age, but that did nothing to diminish the coldness in his gaze, which created a disconcerting contrast.
He was like a flawless work of art—beautiful but utterly devoid of warmth.
"I'm very sorry," I finally found my voice, so weak it was almost a whisper, nearly drowned out by the sound of the string quartet rehearsing in the distance. "I didn't see you."
His gaze slowly moved from my anxious face to my hands, gripping the glasses with knuckles white from tension, then back to my eyes.
His deep eyes narrowed slightly, the initial irritation fading, replaced by a trace of humor and scrutinizing interest, as if assessing a recovered possession.
"Little Ellie Stewart," he murmured my name softly, like savoring a long-forgotten word. His voice was light but carried an undeniable certainty. "You've grown so much."
He recognized me. The realization froze me to the spot, my blood seemingly turning to ice. I instinctively wanted to retreat but found his hand still on my arm. Though the touch appeared casual, it rendered me immobile.
"Hello, Mr. Warren." I forced a polite yet stiff smile, feeling as though the muscles in my face refused to cooperate. Pathetically, even in such a tense moment, I noticed the finesse of his tie clip and the pristine crispness of his shirt cuffs.
A thought flitted through my mind, one that immediately made me sick to my stomach.
He released me, but the areas of my skin he touched still burned as if marked by a brand.
"That red coat suits you," he suddenly remarked, his lips curling into a barely perceptible arch, though his eyes lacked any hint of a smile. "The one from three years ago."
He still remembered. His words sent a chill racing down my spine.
Why would a man like him, the head of The Warren Corporation, who should be overwhelmingly busy, remember the outfit of a junior from a business associate's family he met three years ago?
The implication behind the question left me shivering. This was not mere memory—it was surveillance.
"Ellie! Need help?" Aunt Carol's voice called from the terrace, like a beacon of salvation.
"Coming, Aunt!" I immediately responded, my voice strained with urgency. It provided the perfect excuse to escape. "Sorry, Mr. Warren, I need to deliver this first."
I bypassed his towering figure and hurried towards the terrace, each step feeling like walking on thin ice.
I could feel his sharp gaze fixed on my back, a tangible weight pressing down on me.
Just as I thought I had finally escaped his aura, his voice rang out again from behind me, quiet but cutting through all the noise to reach my ears with precision.
"Ellie."
I froze mid-step, my body stiffening like a statue, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.
Clutching the champagne tower in my arms, even the cold crystal glasses couldn't calm me.
His low laugh seemed to come from right beside my ear, carrying the playful mockery of a cat teasing a mouse.
"Slow down, little girl."
Those words were like a clear signal, a gentle curse, announcing that the man my mother had warned me about had returned. And this time, his target was me.
- Writer
