Trapped in His Love

Chapter 2：The Scarf

Sarah did not call the police.

She sat in her parked car for three full minutes, staring at the photograph on her phone. Her apartment door. The familiar scuff mark on the lower left corner. The hallway light she had meant to replace last week. All of it captured from a perspective that meant the photographer had been standing right outside.

Waiting.

She should have felt afraid. Any sensible woman would have dialed emergency services, installed three deadbolts, and fled to a friend's couch for the week. But Sarah had never been sensible. And fear, she realized with a strange kind of clarity, was not what she felt.

Her hands were shaking. Her heart was slamming against her ribs. But beneath the adrenaline was something else — a dark, curious thrill that made her smile in the rearview mirror.

So this is what hunger looks like from the outside.

She drove home anyway.

The apartment was exactly as she had left it. Easel in the corner. Brushes soaking in a jar of turpentine. The half-finished portrait of a woman drowning in flowers — a commission piece she hated but needed for rent. No signs of intrusion. No mysterious figures lurking in the shadows.

But her scarf was gone.

The crimson silk one she had draped over the back of a chair this morning. She remembered it clearly because she had almost worn it to the gallery, then decided against it at the last minute. Which meant Kaelan Vance had been inside her apartment sometime between her leaving and her returning.

The thought should have been terrifying.

Instead, Sarah walked to her kitchen, poured a glass of wine, and called the only person who might understand.

Mira answered on the second ring. "It's midnight. This better be a booty call."

"Mira." Sarah leaned against the counter. "I think a billionaire is stalking me."

A pause. Then, gleefully: "Tell me everything."

She did. The gallery. The silver eyes. The text message with the photograph. By the time she finished, Mira was breathing like she had just run a marathon.

"And you're not running?" Mira asked.

"Would you?"

"Hell no. I'd be leaving my underwear at his place." Mira laughed, then sobered. "But Sarah. This guy has access to surveillance tech that governments would kill for. He's not a normal crush. He's a fortress with a face."

"I know."

"Does that scare you?"

Sarah looked at her phone — at the unknown number still glowing on her screen. She thought about Kaelan's hand on her lower back, possessive and burning. About the way he had said dream of me like a command, not a wish.

"No," she said quietly. "It makes me wonder what else he's capable of."

She didn't sleep well.

Every creak of the old building made her turn toward the window. Every passing headlight painted moving shadows across her ceiling. But no one came. No mysterious knock. No silver eyes watching from the fire escape.

By dawn, she had convinced herself it was a power play — nothing more. Wealthy men collected artists like trophies. He would lose interest by the weekend.

Then her doorbell rang.

She opened it wearing yesterday's silk dress and her morning scowl. No one was there. But on the doormat lay her crimson scarf, folded into a perfect square.

And pinned to it was a note.

"You look beautiful when you're restless. Sleep deeper tonight. I'll watch the door."

No signature. No number. Just the faint scent of cedar and rain.

Sarah pressed the scarf to her face and inhaled.

She should have burned it.

Instead, she wrapped it around her neck and went to work.

The commercial design firm where she painted wall murals for corporate lobbies felt suffocatingly normal after the night she had endured. Derek Su waved at her from his cubicle. She waved back, then immediately regretted it when her phone buzzed.

"He touched your shoulder. Does he know you're mine?"

She looked up. Scanned the office. The windows were mirrored from the outside but someone inside could be watching through the tinted glass. Derek was already typing at his computer. No one else seemed out of place.

But the text meant Kaelan was here. Or nearby. Or had cameras in places she couldn't see.

Her pulse quickened.

Who says I'm yours? she typed back.

The reply came in four seconds.

"Your heartbeat. I can hear it from here."

She left work early.

Not from fear — from frustration. She was tired of being watched without watching back. Tired of his invisible hands on her body. If Kaelan Vance wanted to play games, Sarah would play to win.

She drove to VanceCorp Tower.

The building rose sixty stories above the city, all black glass and cold angles. The lobby was a cathedral of wealth — marble floors, silent security, a receptionist who looked like she had been carved from ice.

"I'm here to see Kaelan Vance," Sarah said.

The receptionist didn't blink. "Do you have an appointment, miss?"

"No."

"Then I'm afraid"

Sarah pulled off her crimson scarf and laid it on the counter. "Tell him the scarf came back. He'll understand."

The receptionist hesitated, then picked up a phone. She spoke in whispers. Sarah caught only two words: The painter.

A minute later, an elevator opened.

Not the public ones. A private car at the far end of the lobby, guarded by two men in dark suits. One of them gestured for her to enter.

"You can leave the scarf," he said.

"No," Sarah smiled. "I don't think I will."

The elevator rose without a single sound. When the doors opened, she stepped into a penthouse office that belonged in a dreamv — floor-to-ceiling windows, a desk the size of a boat, and Kaelan Vance standing with his back to her, staring at the city below.

"You came," he said without turning.

"You knew I would."

"Yes." He turned then, and his silver eyes were burning. Not with anger. With something far more dangerous. "I've known everything about you for three years, Sarah. Your favorite color. Your mother's birthday. The mole behind your left ear that you think no one sees."

He walked toward her slowly. Each step was measured. Predatory.

"I know you paint your true feelings at 3 AM when you can't sleep. I know you hate your commercial work but you do it because you're too proud to ask anyone for money. I know you've never been in love because you've never met someone who could match your dark."

He stopped inches from her. His hand came up — not to touch, just to hover beside her cheek.

"And I know," he whispered, "that you came here tonight because you want to see how far I'll go."

Sarah's breath caught. But she did not step back.

"Show me," she said.

His eyes blazed.

Then his phone rang.

The sound shattered the air between them. Kaelan's jaw clenched. He pulled the phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and went utterly still.

"Change of plans," he said flatly. "You need to leave."

"What? No"

"There's a service elevator at the end of the hall. Take it to the parking garage. Don't use your car. Take the blue sedan in spot 47. Keys are under the mat."

"Kaelan, what's happening?"

He looked at her then really looked and for the first time, she saw something other than control in his face.

Fear.

"My ex-fiancée just landed at the airport," he said. "And she doesn't know about you yet."

He grabbed her wrist, pulled her toward the hidden elevator, and pressed a key into her palm.

"Stay hidden, Sarah. If she finds out about us, she won't come after me."

His grip tightened.

"She'll come after you."

End Of Chapter 9 • To be Continued