Page 51 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

My alarm goes off at six, but I don’t move until nearly eight. Not because I’m tired—though I am. But because if I don’t move, I don’t have to admit that the night happened. That I let it happen. That a part of me wants it to happen again.

My sheets still smell like him.

Not my bed. His.

That sickeningly pristine penthouse with cold floors and sharp shadows. The place where he ruined me on polished marble, leather, and glass. The place where silence screamed louder than violence.

I sit up slowly, everything aching. My thighs, my ribs, the crook of my neck where his mouth had branded me in bruises that haven’t even begun to fade. My hips bear crescent marks his fingers had dug in deep enough to leave.

I hate how my body remembered him.

Worse, I hate that I don’t want to forget.

I stumble to the bathroom and flick on the light. The face that stares back at me isn’t mine. Her lips are too bitten, her eyes too hollow, her skin marked by hands that hadn’t trembled once while destroying her.

I try to even my breathing.

Try to convince myself I have control.

I run the tap until the water is cold, then splash my face and force myself to move through the motions. Toothbrush. Concealer. Mascara. Lip stain—not red, not today. Something muted and safe.

When I dress, I choose a blazer that fits like armor. Black. Sharp-shouldered. Unapologetic. Beneath it, a blouse buttoned all the way to my throat. Slacks, not a skirt. Low heels. Minimal jewelry.

I look like a lawyer again. Like someone no one could touch.

I look like a lie.

My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. Beth.

Are you coming in today?

I don’t respond. Because I’m not sure.

I could stay home. Hide for another day. Pretend that if I bury myself beneath blankets and silence, the shame will stop eating holes in my stomach.

But I promised myself once—when the world started closing in and my past tried to own me—that I wouldn’t let anyone decide my narrative.

Not even him.

So I pick up my bag, lock the door behind me, and walk out like I haven’t been destroyed.

***

The elevator doors at Finch Corp open too slow. Or maybe I just feel too fast. My nerves are sprinting, even though I keep my pace steady, my chin high, my expression carved from stone.

Whispers meet me before I reach the lobby.

Soft, sharp things that aren’t said to my face. But they don’t need to be.

“She really showed up?”

“Did you see the new video?”

“Figures.”

I hear every syllable. I see the receptionist glance away. The junior assistant’s smirk as she passes. The pity in the eyes of someone I used to mentor.

I don’t flinch.

Don’t blink.

But something inside me tightens so hard I think it might snap.

My phone buzzes again. Beth.

Are you okay?

I lock the screen without replying.

I’m not okay.

I’m humiliated. I’m exhausted. I’m furious.

And I’m still haunted by the taste of his mouth.

***

The elevator is mercifully empty when I step inside. I press the button for the executive floor and lean back, letting the doors close before I allow myself to exhale.

Ten seconds of quiet.

Ten seconds of pretending I am still whole.

And then the doors slide open.

He’s there.

Lucian.

Standing like something carved from steel and silence. His suit jacket open, shirt collar undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Hair slightly mussed. Not out of carelessness but command.

He isn’t just waiting. He’s watching.

My stomach drops. My breath hitches.

He doesn’t move, smile, or speak.

His gaze drags over me slowly, like he’s memorizing what he already owns.

And then—just as the doors start to close again—he steps inside and holds them open with one hand.

“You’re late.”

No anger. No heat. Just control laced into two syllables.

I can’t breathe.

Can’t look at him. Can’t not.

And he doesn’t have to say another word.