Page 11 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

I tell myself it’s the coffee. Too strong or too early, and on an empty stomach. That’s why my hands tremble slightly as I hold the zoning report. Nothing more.

The Harbor District development file is sprawled open across my desk. I’ve underlined a section of the municipal code three times, but the text still dances faintly, refusing to stay still beneath my eyes.

I blink, swallow, and shift in my chair.

Focus.

The Harbor case is massive, dense, controversial, and laced with enough political rot to sour any courtroom. But I like it that way. Clean law doesn’t interest me. Gray areas do. And this case reeks of them.

A soft knock breaks the quiet.

“Come in,” I say without looking up.

Lana peeks in. She’s a junior associate with sharp eyes, always overdressed.

“Morning, Vera. Just thought you should know…the clients from Dane Holdings are requesting an accelerated review. They’ll be dropping off materials soon.”

I glance up. “Dane Holdings?”

“Yeah. Real estate. Luxury, plus some civic initiative tied to the Harbor bids. Big money. The guy heading it, Lucian Dane, apparently, he’s a ghost. The press barely knows him. He doesn’t make statements. But everyone says he reeks of power.”

The name barely registers.

I nod once and return my eyes to the map.

“Tell them to route everything through Legal,” I say. “I’ll look when I’m free.”

“Got it.” The door clicks shut again, leaving me in stillness.

“Lucian Dane.”

I mouth the name once, unconsciously. I go back to reading.

At 11:47 a.m., a package arrives.

I don’t notice it at first. It’s Anissa this time, knocking gently, holding a brown-wrapped parcel like it’s fragile.

“This just came for you. No return address or signature. It was hand-delivered.”

I frown. “From who?”

“No idea. Security let the courier up because he said it was personal. He didn’t give a name.”

“Thanks,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.

The door closes again.

I stare at the package. Ordinary in shape and carefully wrapped. The paper isn’t torn, and the corners are perfectly folded. Someone with a steady hand.

This wasn’t careless.

I reach for my letter opener and slide it beneath the fold. The paper peels away without resistance.

Inside is a hardcover book. Dust jacket intact, though slightly faded.

The Secret Garden.

My breath catches. I haven’t seen this book in years. Not since my foster mother’s second apartment, the one with the peeling linoleum and the loose bathroom tap that dripped all winter.

I remember the cover immediately. The girl in a blue cloak, peering through vines.

Why this?

I turn it over, my heart ticking faster. No inscription. No message. Just a book.

I flip it open and stop. Something slips out. An envelope. I open it, and inside is a photo.

I freeze. Black-and-white. Slightly grainy. Then I set it on my desk. I slip the envelope under my calendar.

It’s me. In bed. Last night. Eyes closed. Hair spilling over the pillow. One hand near my neck.

The covers have slid to my thighs, revealing the curve of my hip beneath a thin tank top. Lips parted. I look utterly unguarded.

My stomach drops.

No. No. No.

I snatch the photo off the desk, heart punching my ribs. I check the door. Locked. I rush to the blinds, yank them shut, and click the window lock, though I haven’t opened it in weeks.

I back away slowly, photo still in hand.

There’s no note. No message. Just the photo and the book.

I move to the door, flip the privacy sign. Only then do my knees give slightly.

In the silence of my office, I stand with my back against the door, breathing shallow. The photo feels hot in my hand, even though it’s just paper.

This was taken while I slept. When I thought I was safe.

I should feel horror. I do, in part.

But fear isn’t what hits me first. Before it comes something sharper and crueler: heat.

Something in my stomach turns. A flush rises under my skin.

It’s not exactly arousal.

It’s violation laced with familiarity. Like someone entered my mind and rearranged everything but left it neater.

I stare at the image again. Who would do this?

No ex. No client. No rival comes to mind.

This is personal, but not messy. Calculated. Not desperate.

I glance back at the book.

I haven’t thought of The Secret Garden in years. It’s not on my shelves, my socials, or in any interview. No one should know that. Or what I look like in sleep. Or how deeply those two things might connect.

The walls feel smaller. My skin, too tight.

I grab the office phone.

“This is Vera Calloway. I want lobby surveillance from today. Anyone who delivered a package to the twenty-third floor.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’ll have it in your inbox within the hour.”

I hang up.

I reach for the book again. The pages are worn but not old. The spine gently handled. No dog-ears. No notes. Clean. Quiet. Like a relic from a life I barely remember.

The cover has a soft crease near the edge.

I trace it with my thumb.

Someone chose this for me.

And now, I don’t know how to shut it out.

I lock it in my desk.

***

At 4:12 p.m., I leave the office.

Rain thickens. My coat clings. My boots echo on wet pavement.

I don’t take a cab. Or my car. I don’t want insulation.

I walk.

The city blurs. Umbrellas bloom. Traffic hums. Neon bleeds through puddles.

My skin itches. I pull my scarf higher.

The photo stays in my mind. Every time I blink, I see it.

I remember how I looked. Peaceful. Real.

And the worst part? I hadn’t looked broken.

I swallow hard. Keep walking.

Something split. I don’t know how to stitch it shut.

I’m not scared.

That’s the first thing I realize when I sit on the floor of my apartment: my coat still on, rain dripping from my sleeves, and my breath ragged.

I wasn’t scared when I saw the photo. Not when I processed it. Not when I locked myself in my office. Not when I failed to call HR. Or the police. Or destroy the picture.

I brought it home. It’s still in my bag, tucked between two files like a secret, humming. I should’ve shredded it.

But I didn’t.

I peel off my soaked coat, and it hits the floor. Shoes. Blouse. Damp from sweat and rain. My skin flushes and chills.

I move to the bathroom and stare in the mirror. Red cheeks. Wet lashes. Collarbone rising like I ran.

I don’t look afraid.

I look alive.

The realization is a slap.

My chest tightens. Nausea coils in my throat.

I stand there, breathing hard, guilt rising.

Heat crashes through me: low, heavy, humiliating.

My body clenches. Thighs press together. Fingertips tingle. My skin prickles.

I hate whoever this is. I wonder if he’d do it again.

Do I want him to?

The heat twists deeper.

I grab the kitchen counter, squeezing until my knuckles whiten.

What is wrong with me?

This is a violation. I should scream. But I don’t.

There’s only shame. Thick. Cruel.

I remember the photo. Every detail.

I don’t look violated. I look seen.

That’s what wrecks me.

He didn’t just capture me. He studied me and chose that moment, that version.

Someone knows me well enough to bypass fear and go straight for the core.

I pour water with shaking hands. One glass. Then another. Then another.

Still, the heat remains.

So does the image.

And the question: Why am I not afraid?

I walk to the front door, barefoot. Quiet.

The hallway outside is still. Rain whispers.

I turn the lock, leave the door cracked open.

It’s not an invitation.

It’s a dare.

I step back inside and sit in the armchair by the window, arms crossed.

The door stays ajar.

I don’t sleep. I sit there for nearly an hour.

Nothing happens. Just the hum of rain.

Eventually, I lock the door. Walk to my bedroom. Don’t undress. Don’t brush my teeth. I just lie down, fully clothed.

My mind circles. My body throbs.

Every time I close my eyes, I see the photo.

A presence lives inside me now.

I wake early. The morning still feels like night.

My body moves on its own. Shower. Clothes. Armor.

Black dress. Camel coat. Lipstick a shade darker.

My heels click louder than usual.

My office is dim and familiar, but the air has changed.

The book is still there.

I move toward it and touch the cover. It’s about loneliness. Curiosity. Secret things blooming in silence.

I open it. The envelope still inside. The photo now lives at home. In the drawer beside my bed.

I sit and let the silence expand.

My office had always been my fortress.

Now it feels breached.

And I can’t deny it: It doesn’t feel wrong.

It feels like someone finally saw me.

By dusk, I stand at the window. Rain streaks the glass. My reflection watches me.

The photo. The book. The silence. None of it shattered me.

They cracked something deeper.

I walk to my shelf and slide the book between a tax code and The Art of War.

I grab my coat. My bag. Tell my assistant I’m leaving.

Outside, the rain hasn’t stopped. I step into it. No umbrella.

I don’t rush.

The city blurs. Neon reflected in puddles. Headlights across glass.

At one point, I see a shape in a black car across the street. But I don’t turn.

At my building, I take the stairs.

My hand trembles as I unlock the door.

I move through my apartment. Everything’s the same.

Everything feels different.

The air is charged. My senses heightened.

I pour water and lean on the counter.

My pulse is steady but not calm.

I close my eyes and whisper, with no shame, “More.”