Criminal Attraction

2 - Lucian

I don't sleep well.

This isn't unusual-I've never been particularly good at shutting my brain off-but tonight is different. Tonight, my mind keeps circling back to the same thing.

Her.

Ivy.

The woman from 7A who looked at me like I was about to murder someone in the lobby, then watched me threaten Derek with the kind of wide-eyed shock that was equal parts horrified and fascinated.

I replay the moment in the lift. The way she tensed when that prick put his hand on her shoulder. The way her breath caught when I stepped in. The way she looked at me afterward-like she couldn't quite figure out if I was dangerous or just insane.

Probably both.

I stare at my ceiling, hands behind my head, and try to convince myself that this is just residual adrenaline. That's all it is. I intervened in an uncomfortable situation, and now my body is processing the aftermath.

Except that's not quite true.

Because it wasn't just about Derek.

It was about her.

The way she tried to make herself smaller in that lift. The way her voice went tight when she said she was fine. The way she looked relieved when I told him to back off.

And then the way she looked at me.

Like I was something unexpected. Something she didn't know how to categorize.

I've been looked at a lot of ways in my life-with respect, with fear, with calculation, with desire. But the way Ivy looked at me was different.

Like she was trying to solve a puzzle.

Like I was a puzzle.

I find that more intriguing than I should.

I glance at the clock. 6:47 a.m.

Close enough.

I get up, shower, and dress in my usual uniform: charcoal suit, white shirt, no tie. I have a meeting at nine, another at eleven, and approximately fourteen emails that need responses before lunch.

Standard Wednesday.

Except when I step into the hallway at 7:15-exactly on schedule, because I'm nothing if not consistent-she's there.

Ivy.

Standing outside her door, keys in hand, wearing jeans that fit her in a way that should be illegal and a blouse that's professional enough for work but casual enough to make me wonder what she does for a living.

Receptionist, maybe. Or admin. Something corporate but not too high up the ladder, given the building's rent versus what those positions typically pay in London.

She freezes when she sees me.

Our eyes meet.

And something happens.

It's not immediate-not a lightning bolt or a sudden realization. It's more like a slow-dawning awareness, the kind that creeps up on you and then hits all at once.

There's something familiar about her.

Not in the way you recognize someone you've met before. In the way you recognize something you've seen before.

The curve of her hip. The way she holds herself. The slight tilt of her head when she's caught off guard.

I've seen that before.

I know that.

But from where?

"Morning," I say, keeping my voice neutral.

"Morning," she replies, her voice slightly higher than it was last night.

She's nervous.

Interesting.

We both move toward the lift at the same time, and I'm still trying to place where I know her from when she stumbles.

It's not a dramatic fall-just a small trip over nothing-but it's enough to send her off balance.

Her travel mug tips forward.

The lid pops off.

And then coffee-hot, brown, unforgiving-arcs through the air and lands directly on my chest.

For a second, I don't react.

I just stare at the spreading brown stain on my white shirt, my brain still trying to process the familiarity I felt a moment ago.

And then it clicks.

Not fully. Not yet.

But enough.

The way she moved just now-the slight stumble, the way her body shifted-it triggered something. A memory. A specific memory of watching someone move exactly like that.

On a screen.

In a video.

Oh.

Oh, f**k.

"Oh my god," she's saying, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I am so sorry. I didn't-I wasn't-my foot just-and then the lid-"

"It's fine," I say, but my voice comes out tighter than I intended.

Because my brain is now racing through a very specific catalog of images, trying to confirm what I think I just realized.

It can't be.

Can it?

"It's not fine," she says, and she sounds genuinely distressed. "Your shirt is ruined. I can pay for the dry cleaning, or-or I can replace it. Just tell me where you got it and I'll-"

"Don't worry about it."

I need to get back inside my flat.

I need to check.

I need to know if I'm right or if my brain is just making connections that don't exist because I'm sleep-deprived and apparently more affected by last night than I thought.

"I have a meeting," I say, more to myself than to her. "I need to change." I turn toward my door, and I can feel her watching me. Confused. Maybe a little hurt.

"Lucian-" she starts.

"It's fine, Ivy," I say, and I make myself look at her.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to see the confusion in her eyes, the way her brow furrows slightly, the curve of her mouth.

And that's when I'm sure.

Not completely. Not yet.

But sure enough that I need to confirm it.

"It's fine," I repeat, and then I step inside my flat and close the door.

I stand there for a moment, back against the door, staring at nothing.

Then I move.

I drop my jacket on the sofa, ignore the coffee stain on my shirt, and grab my laptop from the kitchen counter.

I sit down.

Open the browser.

And navigate to a site I visit more often than I'd care to admit.

The page loads.

And there she is.

Vera Blake.

The profile picture is tasteful-suggestive but not explicit. She's wearing black lace, her face partially obscured by shadow, her body angled in a way that highlights her curves.

I've looked at this picture dozens of times.

I've watched her videos. Subscribed to her content. Paid for private messages that she probably has an assistant handle but that I read anyway because the fantasy is worth it.

I've never seen her face clearly-she's careful about that, always keeping the camera angled just so, always maintaining some level of anonymity.

But I've seen her body.

I've seen the way she moves.

And now, looking at this profile picture with fresh eyes-with the memory of Ivy standing in the hallway, the curve of her hip, the way she held herself-I see it.

It's her.

I click through to her content.

Photos first. Recent posts from the last few weeks.

Black lace. Red silk. Nothing at all.

She's confident in these photos. Playful. Sexy in a way that's both deliberate and natural, like she knows exactly what she's doing and enjoys every second of it.

I've always found that attractive.

The confidence. The ownership of her sexuality. The way she presents herself as someone who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to ask for it.

But now, knowing it's her-knowing it's Ivy, the woman who lives next door, the woman who looked at me like I was a potential mobster, the woman who just spilled coffee on me and looked genuinely mortified-it's different.

It's not just attractive.

It's fascinating.

I click on a video.

It's one I've watched before. Multiple times, if I'm being honest.

She's on a bed, the lighting soft and warm, wearing something sheer that leaves very little to the imagination. The camera is angled so her face isn't visible, but I can see her body, the way she moves, the way her hands trail over her skin.

I've watched this video at least a dozen times.

But now, watching it with the knowledge that it's Ivy-that the woman in this video is the same woman who tripped over nothing in the hallway and spilled coffee on me-I see details I missed before.

The small birthmark on her left hip.

The way her fingers curl when she's focused.

The slight curve of her spine.

It's her.

There's no question.

I close the laptop and sit back, running a hand through my hair.

Fuck.

This is... complicated.

Not bad. Not wrong. Just complicated.

Because here's the thing: I've been a subscriber to Vera Blake's content for months. I found her profile by accident-one of those late-night rabbit holes you fall down when you can't sleep-and I stayed because she was different.

Not just because she was attractive, though she absolutely is, but because there was something about the way she presented herself. The confidence. The humor in some of her captions. The sense that she was doing this because she wanted to, not because she had to.

I respected that.

I still respect that.

But now I know it's Ivy.

Ivy, who looked at me last night like I was both dangerous and intriguing.

Ivy, who has no idea that I've seen her naked.

I stand up and walk to the window, looking out at the London skyline.

This changes things.

Not in a bad way. Not in a way that makes me want to stop being interested in her.

If anything, it makes me more interested.

Because now I know that the woman who posts confident, sexy content online is the same woman who stumbles over nothing in hallways and spills coffee on her neighbors.

The same woman who looked genuinely concerned about ruining my shirt.

The same woman who tensed up when Derek touched her, who looked relieved when I stepped in.

She's real.

Not just a fantasy on a screen.

Real.

And that's infinitely more compelling than any video could ever be.

I glance at the clock. 7:58 a.m.

I'm going to be late for my meeting if I don't leave in the next ten minutes.

I change my shirt-a fresh white one, identical to the one now stained with coffee-and grab my jacket.

But before I leave, I open my laptop one more time.

I navigate back to her profile, look at the username I've been using to subscribe to her content.

Atlas_47.

Anonymous. Untraceable. Just another paying subscriber in a sea of them.

She has no idea it's me and I'm going to keep it that way.

For now.

Because here's what I've realized in the last twenty minutes:

Ivy is Vera Blake.

Vera Blake is Ivy.

And I want to know everything about her.

Not just the version she presents online-the confident, sexy, unapologetic version.

But the real version. The one who trips over nothing and spills coffee and looks at me like I'm a puzzle she can't quite solve.

I want to know what makes her laugh. What makes her nervous. What she does when she's not performing for a camera.

I want to know her.

And I'm going to.

But carefully.

Because the last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable. Or worse, make her think I'm some kind of creep who's been watching her without her knowledge.

Technically, I have been watching her without her knowledge.

But she posted the content publicly. She wanted people to watch.

I just happen to be one of those people.

And now I happen to live next door.

---

The meeting is a disaster.

Not because anything goes wrong with the actual business-the numbers are solid, the projections are good, the clients are happy.

But because I can't focus.

My mind keeps drifting back to this morning. To the look on Ivy's face when she spilled coffee on me. To the way she stumbled. To the realization that I've been watching her for months without knowing who she really was.

"Lucian?"

I blink and realize Marcus is staring at me.

"Sorry," I say. "What?"

"I asked if you'd reviewed the contract for the Berlin acquisition."

"Yes," I say, because I have. Last week. "It's fine. We can move forward."

Marcus narrows his eyes at me, but he doesn't push.

The meeting wraps up twenty minutes later, and as soon as the clients leave, Marcus turns to me.

"What's going on with you?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

I lean back in my chair and consider how much to tell him.

Marcus has been my best friend since university. He knows me better than almost anyone. He also has absolutely no filter and will mock me mercilessly if I give him ammunition.

But I need to talk to someone about this.

"I think my neighbor is a cam girl," I say.

Marcus blinks. "What?"

"Not a cam girl, exactly. OnlyFans. She posts content."

"Okay," Marcus says slowly. "And you know this because...?"

"Because I'm a subscriber."

There's a beat of silence.

Then Marcus starts laughing.

"Oh my god," he says. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"You've been watching your neighbor's OnlyFans?"

"I didn't know she was my neighbor when I subscribed," I say. "I only just realized it this morning."

"How did you realize?"

"She spilled coffee on me in the hallway."

Marcus laughs harder. "This is the best thing I've heard all week."

"I'm glad you're enjoying this."

"Oh, I am," Marcus says, wiping his eyes. "I really, really am. So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"Are you going to tell her?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because that would be insane," I say. "What am I supposed to say? 'Hi, I've been watching you naked online for months, and we're neighbours now'?"

"When you put it like that, it does sound a bit creepy."

"Exactly."

Marcus leans back in his chair, grinning. "So you're just going to... what? Keep watching? Pretend you don't know?"

"For now."

"And then?"

"And then I'm going to get to know her," I say. "The real her. Not just the version she posts online."

"You're going to seduce your OnlyFans crush."

"I'm going to get to know my neighbor," I correct. "Who happens to be someone I find attractive and interesting."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are," Marcus says. "That's what makes this so entertaining."

I glare at him.

He grins back.

"For what it's worth," he says, "I think you should go for it. Just... maybe don't lead with the fact that you've seen her naked."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Good. Because that would be a terrible opening line."

"Thanks for the advice."

"Anytime."

I spend the rest of the day trying to focus on work and failing spectacularly.

By the time I get home, it's nearly nine, and I'm exhausted.

I unlock my door, step inside, and immediately hear voices in the hallway.

Her voice.

Ivy's voice.

I freeze, listening.

She's talking to someone-another woman, by the sound of it. They're laughing about something, their voices bright and easy.

I should go inside.

I should close the door and give them privacy.

But I don't.

Instead, I stand there, listening to the sound of her laugh, and I think about the fact that I know things about her that she doesn't know I know.

I've seen her confident and sexy and unapologetic.

But I've also seen her nervous and clumsy and genuine.

And I want more.

I want to know everything.