Dark Desires

Chapter One

Coffee was never strong enough.

At least, not according to Elara.

And every morning when her alarm rang at six a.m., she secretly hoped—deep down—that today might be different. Maybe she wouldn't feel that hollow, cold layer beneath her chest. Maybe the water in the shower would be warmer, the makeup simpler, the dress less tight, the heels not as unforgiving.

But nothing ever changed.

The shower was lukewarm, her hair sleeked to perfection, the black dress hugged her form, and the red lipstick stretched across her lips in the exact same shade as yesterday—and the day before. The shoes still squeezed her feet, but Elara wore them as if they were part of her. Because pain didn't matter when you'd learned how to hide it.

The Virexon Technologies building had twelve floors, but only a few knew that the twelfth was where the real power operated. The board of directors, the decision-makers, the international strategists all had their offices there—where every surface was made of glass, marble, or steel, and even the air felt sterilized, like it was disinfected daily.

The morning light gleamed coldly off the stainless steel counters in the kitchen area, where Elara was already standing in front of the coffee machine—first, as always.

The machine filled the white porcelain mug with a low hum while she skimmed her tablet with one eye, checking the agenda.

Thirteen emails awaited replies, two video conferences needed organizing, one internal meeting had to be rescheduled, and the investor report wasn't even started.

All of it before eight a.m.

Elara never complained. Not once.

Punctuality, precision, structure—these weren't just work habits. They were sanctuary.

In a life where she'd had to adapt to too many people's unpredictability for far too long, these small, familiar rituals were her anchors.

The coffee.

The emails.

The daily routine.

The silence.

The control.

As she walked down the hallway, the click of her heels echoed rhythmically between the glass walls.

An intern greeted her with a nervous smile.

Elara gave a single nod in return.

Polite, but never friendly.

Kindness was not part of her protocol.

Kindness was an invitation.

And she invited no one close.

Her workstation was clean, disciplined—as always. Every item had its place, the notes aligned to the left by color, the digital calendar synced, the screensaver a simple gray pattern—no family photos, no personal quotes, no past, no future.

Only the present.

Only function.

In the corner office, Miles Ferrow was already on the phone.

Behind the glass wall, his movements were energetic, jacket off, sleeves rolled, half-reclined in the leather chair.

The man was dangerous—but not in the way most people understood it.

He didn't yell. He wasn't aggressive.

He was manipulative, charming, and razor-sharp.

Most people adored him.

Elara didn't.

She knew real power didn't need to be loud.

Time passed.

Emails answered.

Messages forwarded.

The schedule assembled.

Everything in place.

The day moved forward in its usual rhythm—like a well-oiled machine.

By noon, she was on her third coffee, eyes weary from the screen's glow, but her fingers still typed fast and flawless.

Then a notification appeared.

A new entry in Miles Ferrow's calendar.

"3:00 PM – confidential meeting."

No name.

No location.

No notes.

Just a time slot.

A strange, empty row where every detail was usually exact.

Elara's eyes lingered on the screen for a moment.

Something stirred deep in her instincts.

It wasn't the first oddity that day—just the first she couldn't ignore.

Systems didn't make mistakes.

Neither did the secretariat.

This was intentional.

Something... unknown.

She searched for an anchor—an email, a document, anything referencing the meeting.

Nothing.

Too quiet.

Too clean.

And she hated cleanliness when it wasn't accompanied by explanation.

She didn't know this would be her last "normal" day.

She couldn't have guessed that at 3:00 p.m., someone would walk into the building—someone no one invited, but for whom every door would open.

She couldn't know that the world she'd built around herself over the years was about to start cracking—not from the outside, but from within.

And she didn't yet know that this time, heels, red lipstick, and a color-coded schedule wouldn't be enough.

Because there are some people who can't be contained by rules.

Some don't ask permission.

They just appear.

And take everything we don't want to give.

Elara didn't like unpredictability.

Not because she couldn't handle surprises—on the contrary, she excelled at adaptation.

But unpredictability usually meant someone wasn't playing by the rules.

And those people—the rulebreakers—were always dangerous.

At 2:53, she was already in the meeting room.

Through the glass wall, the city stretched out, sunlight reflecting off skyscrapers, shadows lengthening in the downtown streets.

The air inside was still.

Something felt... too calm. Too quiet.

Like before a storm, when even the trees don't dare to move.

Elara sat at the long black table, laptop in front of her, notebook to the side, the recorder discreetly switched on.

She didn't know what to expect—but her posture remained perfect:

Back straight, legs crossed, slender fingers holding the pen she'd bought in university—to remind herself that survival was possible.

The door opened at exactly 3:00 PM.

Not before.

Not after.

The man who entered didn't speak a word.

He was tall. Elara would've placed him above 6'3" at first glance.

He wore a dark suit—deep black, with a silky sheen—untarnished by logos or branding.

It didn't need them.

The cut spoke for itself.

His shoes made no sound. His movements were slow and deliberate—like someone who knew the world adjusted to him, not the other way around.

His hair was black, cropped short, but not military.

His features were strong, his face symmetrically handsome—but not pleasant.

More... unsettling.

And his eyes.

Gray. Almost silver.

He didn't look at her for long, but Elara felt his gaze sweep over her—not like a man looking at a woman, but like a predator assessing whether the prey was worth the hunt.

The air shifted. Instantly.

Miles Ferrow entered too, and in the next seconds, he began to speak—introductions, business, details—but Elara only half-listened.

The man, whose name wasn't mentioned, sat across from her.

Still silent.

He didn't introduce himself.

Didn't offer his hand.

Just watched her.

Quietly. Intently.

"Miss Vance, this is... our partner," Ferrow said, a shade too casually.

"He'd like you to remain in your current position. Temporarily, of course. Until the new structure settles."

"Temporarily."

Elara tensed her spine but didn't speak.

The partner?

No name. No title. Just: partner.

And the man only smiled. Faintly.

As if he didn't need to be told who he was.

Because either you already knew—or you'd soon find out.

"A lot will be changing in the next few weeks," Ferrow continued.

"But I'm certain Miss Vance will adapt quickly. She's always had... exceptional instincts for transitions."

His words were too carefully chosen.

His smile too tight.

And Elara knew exactly when someone was cornered—and trying to hide it.

The man finally spoke.

"I won't get in your way," he said.

His voice was deep and clear, like a piano string struck—slightly muted, yet weighty.

"If you don't hinder me, I won't hinder you."

That wasn't a promise.

It was a warning.

And Elara, who had spent her entire life making sure she'd never be at anyone's mercy again, now felt something she hadn't in a long time.

Not fear.

Attraction.

A deep, instinctive, inexplicable urge to look into those eyes again.

And when she did, the world fell quiet for a second.

The man didn't blink.

Didn't smile.

Didn't try to impress.

He just... watched.

And Elara didn't know how not to tremble inside.

Miles Ferrow's voice continued, his usual half-theatrical, half-charismatic tone washing over the room—the kind Elara had grown used to filtering, cutting through the fluff to find the meaning.

But now something was different.

Not in the content—in the fearful restraint with which he spoke.

But in what he didn't say.

His jaw was tight.

His fingers clenched the tablet a bit too hard.

As if he, too, felt something pressing on him.

Miles's voice quickened—more than usual—like a man trying to outrun an invisible deadline.

"...well, if you don't mind, I'll need to join a call. I'm sure the two of you can work out the details," he said, flashing that CEO smile that held more nerves than politeness.

Dareth said nothing.

Didn't nod.

Didn't gesture.

He simply watched the door for a heartbeat longer as Miles left—as if he no longer cared whom he'd been speaking to moments before.

The moment the door shut, everything shifted.

No more light behind the words.

Just the two of them.

Two wills.

One space.

Elara didn't move.

Didn't adjust her posture.

Didn't allow herself a single grimace or nervous sigh.

Her spine was straight as a blade.

But her gaze was no longer neutral.

Not because she was interested in him.

But because she was furious.

"I don't usually conduct meetings with strangers," she finally said, her voice sharply calm.

"Especially when I don't even know who's sitting across from me. Not even a name. Nothing."

The man just looked at her for a while.

Then he smiled.

But it wasn't a friendly smile.

It was the kind of smile a predator gives—not to soothe, but to show teeth. To remind you he doesn't need to raise his voice to be dangerous.

"If a name is all it takes for you to feel comfortable, then you've spent too much time working on the surface," he said quietly.

"And if you think this dramatic vagueness works on me, then you've picked the wrong assistant to tangle with," Elara shot back, not even trying to hide the edge in her voice.

Dareth's eyes flashed—faintly, coldly.

"I didn't pick anyone to tangle with," he said. "But since this is where we are, at least try not to be like all the others. I won't adapt to daily bickering."

"How lucky," Elara retorted, "because I'm not in the habit of taking orders from nameless, arrogant men who act like silence and superiority automatically entitle them to everything."

Dareth leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched her for a moment, as if weighing something—a measure, a value, a threat.

His eyes narrowed, and though his mouth didn't move, his presence thickened around her.

"You survive, or you walk away. There is no other choice," he said at last, with a tone like a verdict. "This is not a request. And it's not a negotiation. From now on, this world isn't what you're used to."

Elara's heart skipped a beat—not from fear, but from realization.

That this man wasn't playing games.

He wasn't manipulating.

He didn't ask for permission.

And the worst part?

She didn't want to give it to him.

She closed her notebook with a single motion.

Firm. Final.

"I don't walk away. Not unless someone fires me," she said. "And if I have a new boss, you should at least know this: don't expect me to bow. That's not my kind."

"That's exactly why you'll be more interesting than I expected," Dareth replied—and for the first time, there was no smile on his face.

Only silence.

The kind of silence that comes before a storm.

When it's still undecided who will win.