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I fall asleep next to the man who chased me down. Next to the man who fucked me like I asked for it.

Next to the man who now gets to decide what happens to me next.

Eighteen

LUNA

I wake to silence.

The kind that doesn't hum or whisper or stir.

The sheets beside me are warm but empty.

Beckett's not here. Of course he isn't.

The memory of him fills the room in his absence and his scent clings to the pillows. The air feels heavier here, the walls closer. Like the whole penthouse somehow knows I'm not supposed to be here.

My legs ache when I shift. My core throbs when I stretch. Everything hurts in a way that feels like a brand, like ownership.

I sit up slowly, dragging the sheet with me—more for illusion than modesty. My thighs are marked with bruises that bloom like watercolors. My body still bears fingerprints that only I can see. Evidence of last night that can't be washed away.

I scan the room, expecting to find him lurking in somecorner, watching me with that predatory stillness that makes my skin prickle. But the bathroom is empty. The closet dark.

Still, I rise. No point in delaying the inevitable.

The floor is cool beneath my bare feet, smooth and polished and expensive in that way that says money was spent without care for the cost. I cross to his closet and pause, hesitating only a second before stepping inside.

It's exactly what I expected—all sharp cuts and muted colors. Charcoal, black, navy. Tailored edges. Nothing soft. Nothing that doesn't scream control. The wardrobe of a man who never shows weakness, not even in his clothing choices.

I reach for the only thing that feels like it might belong to someone human.

A white T-shirt, worn at the edges.

It smells like him. Sandalwood and something darker, something uniquely Beckett.

I pull it over my head, the fabric falling low over my thighs, the sleeves a little too long. It brushes my skin like something I don't deserve but can't resist taking.

Still, I wear it. Small rebellions are all I have left.

And then I step out into a home that isn't mine. Into a life that isn't mine. Into a world I may not walk away from.

At first, I think he's gone completely. Fled his own penthouse just to avoid dealing with the aftermath of last night. The thought both relieves and unsettles me.

The space is too quiet. No footsteps. No doors. No rustle of movement or low, clipped commands. Just silence that stretches like a trap.

For a moment, I stand in the middle of his pristine living room, unsure if I feel relieved or abandoned.

Then I hear it.

A low, mechanical hum—steady, rhythmic, like something alive and breathing just beneath the surface of this carefully curated world. The sound doesn't belong among all this polished perfection, which makes me curious enough to follow it.

I pad barefoot through the sleek kitchen, my fingers trailing over marble counters and chrome fixtures as I pass. The hum leads me to a narrow hallway just off the main room, where a single door sits slightly ajar.

The sound deepens as I reach it—more layered now. Screens. Fans. A faint clicking of keys.

When I push the door open, I find him.

Beckett Sinclair.