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Her cheeks probably flushed red.

I haven’t texted or called Clara to check on Ophelia. Haven’t needed a report on how she’s been doing.

She’s mine. Whatever she’s been going through belongs to me. I’ll hear it from her lips.

Me.

My obsession with her is reaching terrifying levels. I’m aware.

It is what it is.

Looking in the rearview mirror, I hardly recognize the man staring back at me.

My eyes are cold as ever. My expression is bare of any emotion.

That’s what I let everyone in the office see today, especially when they asked about Topher. When I told them he’d come down with the flu.

Nevertheless, I’m not the same.

I’m excited.

I’ve never been eager to come back from the office. To a woman, no less.

I don’t even remember the last time I had sex before Ophelia. Waste of time, breath, and effort.

My time, my breaths, my efforts, they’re all Ophelia’s now.

I’m addicted. Whipped.

In love.

“Shut up, motherfucker,” I scold myself and go to her.

The first thing I notice is the silence inside the house. No shoes clicking on the floor. No clattering of plates as they’re being set on the table.

Second thing is the smell. Something’s burned.

My heart slams against its cage; my feet carry me at full speed toward the kitchen, where the smell is coming from.

She could be lying there dead.

My staff would know how furious I’d be if anything happened to her. It could be the reason they haven’t called to inform me about it.

They’re afraid of me.

They’re right to be.

As soon as I’m in the kitchen, my fear vanishes as quickly as it came.

Ophelia’s there.

Alive.

Dragging her chain as she paces in the opposite direction of me.

Breathing.

Huffing.