Elena Marlowe returned home later than usual, her mind still buzzing from the evening’s encounters with Damian. The storm outside had subsided, leaving the streets glistening and quiet. She hung her coat and stepped into her apartment, the familiar scent of lavender and clean linen greeting her, yet the sense of unease she carried refused to fade.
Something had shifted in Damian tonight. His charm, his magnetic presence, even his dangerous smile—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. But tonight, a new element disturbed the balance of her thoughts entirely.
As she set her bag down on the kitchen counter, a small envelope caught her eye. It was stark white, unmarked, and placed on top of her keys as if it had materialized there silently. There was no handwriting she
