Page 25 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Fiona Robertson

The next day, I waited just before 2 PM at the imposing estate in Dade County that we were set to tour, to clarify final details and questions before closing the deal.

Two black SUVs belonging to the buyer stood neatly side by side, and an elegant Bentley—undoubtedly Mrs.

Pierce’s—gleamed in the sunlight.

The fresh ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and blooming plants.

The estate was a masterpiece of modern architecture—a perfect fusion of exhilarating elegance and purist simplicity.

The fa?ade, clad in white limestone and expansive glass panels, offered unobstructed views of the ocean and the meticulously landscaped gardens.

This was a house that radiated not just luxury, but refinement and restraint.

A broad, palm-lined driveway led to an opulent garage on the left, while the entrance was accentuated by a massive mahogany door and subtly lit overhang.

Flanking the door were sleek, frameless windows stretching floor-to-ceiling, bathing the interior in natural light.

The sprawling terrace, running nearly the full length of the house, was paved in pale stone tiles and furnished with modern, cream-colored lounge pieces.

A discreet glass balustrade traced the edge, granting an unimpeded vista of the ocean.

To the right, polished concrete steps descended to an infinity pool, its water merging seamlessly with the horizon.

Every detail of the estate hinted at its staggering value—a deliberate statement.

Framed by tropical foliage strategically placed to craft the illusion of a private paradise, the entire setting seemed ripped from the pages of a lifestyle magazine.

The gardens were a work of art unto themselves—symmetrical beds of exotic blooms in saturated hues, shaded alcoves with olive trees, and manicured lawns rolling gently toward the cliffs.

Narrow gravel paths wound between flowerbeds, leading to the pool and a secluded lounge area draped in billowing white pavilion curtains.

The rooftop was a green oasis, a terrace garden curated with precision.

A lounge zone piled with cushions and low tables invited sunset viewing as the distant ocean glittered.

An outdoor grill station with an adjoining bar completed the space—ideal for private soirées or languid summer evenings.

This estate was a flawless interplay of natural beauty and modern indulgence—a sanctuary offering both seclusion and expanse, every detail mirroring the tastes of the elite.

I drew a sharp breath, willing down the prickle of nerves.

Today wasn’t just pivotal for the deal—it was also the day I’d face Alessandro again after last night’s intensity.

And that would be anything but simple.

But he wasn’t here.

The tour began precisely on time.

Beside me stood Mrs.

Pierce, poised as ever, and the buyer’s two representatives—Mr.

Thompson, a distinguished man in his fifties, and his younger colleague, whose cutting-edge suit reeked of obscene expense.

They seemed both eager and professional, firing off questions, which I answered with the confidence of a woman who knew every inch of this house down to its bones.

I guided the group through the open living area with its floor-to-ceiling windows, elaborating on the tasteful furnishings, the sprawling terrace, the flawlessly integrated fireplace, and the state-of-the-art kitchen.

My voice was steady, my demeanor unshaken—everything was going perfectly.

And yet, inside, I was chaos.

My mind clung to him.

The memory of our last night seared itself relentlessly into my consciousness.

I could still feel his hands on my skin, his lips tracing every line of my body, his voice—rough and dark—whispering my name.

Every touch, every kiss, every glance had carved itself into me, as if I’d only truly come alive in his arms.

The harder I tried to banish him from my thoughts, the tighter those memories gripped me. His absence had left a void nothing could fill.

"Fiona?" Mrs.

Pierce’s voice snapped me back.

"Would you present the next room?"

"Of course," I said swiftly, forcing a smile.

"Please follow me."

We stepped into the master bedroom.

The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the ocean, and the golden glow of the sun bathed the room in warmth.

I lifted a hand to emphasize the view.

"As you can see, the bedroom is oriented so you wake with the sunrise each morning."

Mr.

Thompson nodded appreciatively; his colleague snapped a photo with his phone.

I kept speaking, clinging to professionalism, but beneath the surface, I simmered.

He wasn’t coming.

Not after how far we’d gone.

What the hell was this?

Then I heard footsteps.

Slowly, I turned—and my heart stalled as I saw him.

He stepped onto the rooftop terrace, his movements as lethally graceful as ever, posture unwavering.

The navy suit clung like a second skin, the white beneath it blindingly crisp, the gilded sun setting his dark hair aflame.

But his gaze was ice.

A wall I couldn’t breach.

No smile. No flicker of recognition that I even existed.

My stomach twisted into a sick, aching knot.

The chill of his detachment hit like a punch to the gut.

It was absurd, how much I needed him now, how violently I craved his nearness.

And here he stood—a stranger.

"Perfect timing," Mrs.

Pierce said brightly, greeting him.

"We’ve just finished the terrace."

"I hope I’m not late," he replied, tone polished, impersonal.

"Not at all," Mr.

Thompson countered, smile widening to his eyes.

"Your expertise here is more than welcome, Alessandro."

Alessandro.

Only those who knew him intimately used his real name.

Their handshake was too familiar, too weighted with unspoken history.

This wasn’t just business—it was mutual regard bordering on respect, evident in the way they measured each other.

"I thought it best to ensure everything runs smoothly in person," Alessandro said, a thread of irony woven through his tone.

"That’s one reason I enjoy working with you," Thompson replied with a curt nod.

"But I’ve told you—you’ll have to learn to downshift eventually."

Alessandro smirked, but his eyes never sought mine.

Instead, he fixed Thompson with a look that bordered on challenge.

"Downshift? I wasn’t aware that was ever my strength." Their quiet laughter curled between them, leaving me stranded on the periphery.

His indifference was a blade—no spark of recognition, no trace of the intimacy that had once seared us together.

Every inch of him was polished detachment, as if I were nothing more than a passing acquaintance.

Mrs.

Pierce smoothly redirected, addressing Alessandro.

"Good timing.

We were just heading to the kitchen—Fiona’s already covered the key details with Mr.

Thompson."

Alessandro nodded but didn’t so much as glance my way.

"Glad to hear it," he said flatly, his gaze skimming the room.

My cheeks burned—with humiliation, with fury, with something dangerously close to grief.

The tour resumed, but his proximity was torture.

Every word he spoke was measured, impersonal, stripped of the warmth or the rough-edged intimacy I’d come to crave.

He stood beside me, yet I’d never felt further from him.

And it was maddening.

"The kitchen was designed to balance functionality with aesthetics," I explained, gesturing to the veined granite and integrated appliances.

"It’s a space meant for both daily life and entertaining."

Alessandro was flawless.

Too flawless.

His gaze brushed over me like I was part of the furniture—useful, utterly insignificant.

No hint of the man who’d mapped my body with his mouth hours earlier.

His expression was neutral, his tone clinical, every syllable reserved for the client. The facade was so impeccable it hurt. He was a master at erasing himself. As if he’d decided overnight that nothing between us had ever mattered.

I couldn’t tell if this was a performance—or if he meant it.

Maybe both.

The void inside me yawned wider, swallowing every fragile hope I’d foolishly let take root.

No touch.

No glance.

Not even the barest acknowledgment that I existed beyond the shadows.

It felt like he’d erased me after breakfast. He was so untouchable, so severed from what we’d been, that for a heartbeat, I doubted my own sanity.

Had I imagined it all?

He might as well have ignored me—and in a way, he did.

No fleeting touch, no glance that lingered a second longer than necessary.

As if I were nothing to him.

A lump rose in my throat, but I forced a smile, clinging to the facade he’d already mastered.

I couldn’t let it show how deep the cut went—but that didn’t dull the blade. He treated me like air.

The next room was a study—spacious, with high ceilings and a floor-to-ceiling glass wall framing the gardens.

Dark wood dominated, paired with modern furniture and muted tones.

A broad desk faced the windows, flanked by sleek shelves that balanced function and elegance.

Mrs.

Pierce detailed the room’s merits while Thompson nodded, jotting notes.

Alessandro and I stood side by side, his proximity like live voltage in the air.

Yet he didn’t move.

Not a word, not a gesture. I fought the urge to look at him—and lost. From the corner of my eye, I watched him: arms crossed, gaze fixed ahead. The tension in his jaw, the absolute stillness of his posture, infuriated me. He was so close, yet oceans away.

"What is this?" I finally whispered, the words barely audible over the room’s sterile silence.

Alessandro turned slowly, his gaze impenetrable.

A curtain had dropped between us, and I stood helpless on the other side.

"We’re working, Fiona," he said coolly, his voice smooth as polished stone.

"Focus on what matters." The words landed like a slap.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself not to flinch.

He held my eyes for only a second before turning away—as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience.

Mrs.

Pierce led the group toward the exit, and I followed, adrift in a fog of hurt and doubt.

Every instinct screamed to confront him, to force him to look at me, to stop treating me like I meant nothing.

But this wasn’t the time.

At the estate’s grand entrance, the group paused beneath the mahogany doors.

Palm leaves rustled in the warm breeze, the afternoon sun gilding the scene.

Thompson turned to me, satisfaction in his smile.

"Ms.

Robertson," he said, approval lacing his tone, "I’ve decided.

We have a deal.

It meets every expectation—and exceeds them."

Relief and triumph should have flooded me.

Instead, I felt only hollow pain, mustering a strained smile.

"That’s wonderful news, Mr.

Thompson," I said, offering my hand.

"The pleasure was mine," he replied before addressing Mrs.

Pierce.

"Congratulations on such a competent colleague.

Ms.

Robertson’s work was exemplary."

Mrs.

Pierce nodded proudly.

"Fiona is one of our best.

I’m glad she convinced you."

Thompson straightened, turning to Alessandro, who stood silent beside us.

"Alessandro, handle the finalization.

I want this closed as quickly as possible."

Alessandro acknowledged with a curt nod.

As the group moved toward the waiting cars, my pulse spiked.

This was my chance.

I had to speak to him—had to make him listen, even for a second.

"Mr.

Russo," I said quickly before he could leave, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Do you have a moment? There are a few final details to review."

He paused, turning with that controlled precision.

His gaze met mine—dark, unreadable, so foreign it stole my breath.

"Now isn’t the time, Ms.

Robertson," he replied evenly.

Polite.

Impenetrable.

"I’m already late."

"It’ll only take a minute," I pressed, ignoring the pressure in my chest.

"It’s important."

A near-imperceptible shake of his head, as if I were static to be tuned out.

"Call my office if you have questions." Flawless courtesy, every word another cut.

"My assistant will schedule you."

I swallowed.

It was as if he were speaking to a stranger—not the woman he’d fucked in her bed just last night.

"All right," I said softly, the words barely making it past my lips.

But inside, a bleeding wound had already split open.

His polite tone was like a razorblade dragging over the same cut again and again.

The cold distance in his words thickened the air around me, stifling, as if it were sucking the last strength from my lungs with every second.

My throat tightened while my heart beat faster—not from excitement, but from a mix of pain and helpless rage.

How could he act like I was nothing? Like I was just another item on his endless to-do list? The contrast to last night was so sharp it hurt almost physically.

Just yesterday, he’d set me ablaze with his intensity, his gaze, his touch—and now I was nothing more than an inconvenient formality he wanted to politely shake off.

I felt my hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms.

"So that’s it?" I wanted to hurl at him.

But the words lodged in my throat, swallowed by the fear of losing even more of myself.

My gaze drifted to his eyes, so cool and detached it made me shudder.

He seemed utterly unaffected by what he was doing, while I felt like I was splintering into a thousand pieces.

My thoughts raced, searching for an explanation, for any sign that he might still feel something—anything that could prove last night had been more than just a moment of weakness.

But there was nothing.

No hesitation, not a flicker of remorse.

I could have followed him, could have confronted him, could have demanded he explain why he was treating me like this.

But I knew I’d only be slamming myself against the concrete wall he’d built around himself.

He’d shut the door on me, and I stood on the other side, alone with all my questions and all my pain.

Instead, I forced myself to keep up the fa?ade, even as my world crumbled beneath me.

I swallowed again, fighting back the hot wave of fury and despair threatening to explode in my chest.

A tremor ran through my fingers as I finally turned away—from him, from the piercing gaze that had nearly erased me.

"Of course," I said, though the words felt like shards in my mouth.

"I’ll contact your office."

I walked away without looking back.

Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew I couldn’t bear it.

The sight of him would break me completely, and I couldn’t afford that collapse.

Not now.

And especially not in front of him.

I slumped heavily into the car seat, hands gripping the smooth surface of the steering wheel, but I couldn’t steady them.

They trembled, uncontrollably, as my eyes locked onto Alessandro.

He stood there with the calm of a man nothing and no one could touch.

The warm wind tugged at his shirt, but he didn’t move, speaking quietly to his driver, utterly indifferent to the scene around him.

I didn’t dare move.

"Call my office if you have questions." Every muscle in my body seemed frozen, locked in this agonizing contrast between the intense closeness of the night before and the ice-cold distance he embodied now with every motion, every word, every glance.

Yesterday, I’d felt closer to him than ever—as if he’d touched me in a way no one else ever could.

His driver opened the door, and Alessandro stepped into the black Bentley.

No hurried movement, no glance back, no hint of anything that might suggest there had ever been meaning between us.

He acted as if he’d forgotten me long ago.

As if I’d have to question my sanity for ever believing there was more between us than business.

The car rolled forward slowly before disappearing through the massive gates.

For a moment, I held my breath, as if by clinging to that last glimpse of him, I could keep the final remnants of him inside me.

But the gates closed again with a soft, mechanical hum, mercilessly announcing: He was gone.

I blinked, the driveway in front of me blurring slightly, but I refused to let the tears come.

I pressed my palms against the steering wheel, searching for an anchor, anything to keep me from collapsing in on myself.

The minutes dragged.

The car grew hotter under the scorching afternoon sun, but I felt none of it.

Everything inside me was cold. A sharp, icy pain spreading slowly from my chest to my fingertips.

I couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

Alessandro had built a wall, an impenetrable fortress, behind which I could only vaguely make out the shadows of last night’s memories.

Memories that now lay inside me like jagged shards.

I tried to focus on my breathing—inhale, exhale—but every breath felt like poison flooding my lungs.

My chest rose and fell, but the air was never enough.

My gaze drifted to the now-closed gates, as if staring long enough could summon him back.

But there was nothing.

Just the shimmer of hot air and the wavering shadows of palm trees.

A tremor ran through my hands, over my shoulders, down to my legs. Not visible, but I felt it deep inside—a restlessness building like a wave, threatening to swallow me whole.

I pressed my lips together, forcing myself to stay still even as everything inside me screamed.

The pain was a constant throb in my chest, a suffocating knot in my throat.

But I couldn’t let it out.

Wouldn’t.

Because I knew if I gave in, I might never stop.

Why had he done this? Why had he treated me like a stranger? Why had he let me into his life at all if he could walk away this easily?

The questions raced through my mind, each one a fresh stab, deepening the pain.

My thoughts clawed desperately for an answer, a clue, anything to explain what had just happened.

But there was nothing.

Just this unbearable emptiness, this silence eating me alive from the inside.

The first tear burned down my cheek, and I wiped it away quickly, as if that could undo it.

But it was useless.

Another followed, then another, until I couldn’t hold back anymore.

A sob tore out of me, violent and uncontrolled.

My hands trembled as I dropped them into my lap, powerless to steady them. The pain was a tidal wave, crushing me, dragging me under, stealing my breath.

Everything I knew about Alessandro, everything I’d felt for him, seemed meaningless in this moment.

His words, his touches—they were like a dream that had dissolved into nothing with a single blow.

And I, the fucking idiot, had even shown him Carter’s contract, laid my whole goddamn life bare before him.

"Bravo, Fiona.

How fucking stupid can you be?" I snarled at myself.

The next tear burned against my skin, hot and mocking, but this time, I didn’t wipe it away.

Instead, I let it fall, let it sharpen the cold inside me.

I’d thought I was stronger.

That no one, not even a man like Alessandro, could reach deep enough to destroy me like this.

But I’d let him.

A bitter laugh rose in my throat but got stuck, choked off by the shame threatening to suffocate me.

How could I have been so stupid? How had I let him wrap me around his finger like that? His words, his touches—I'd swallowed them like truth, like something real that belonged only to us.

But what had they really been? A game.

A fucking, manipulative game where I was nothing more than a pawn on his chessboard.

I pressed my hands to my temples as if I could scrub away the memories—his touch, his smile, his voice.

But they clung stubbornly, digging deeper into my mind, leaving me gasping for air.

I forced myself to inhale slowly through my nose.

I wouldn’t break.

Not like this. Not for him.

My thoughts drifted to my mother—her sad smile, the hollow stare she’d fixed on the window when she thought no one was watching.

I’d seen her suffering, year after year.

How many times had I sworn I’d never become like her? Never give a man the power to hurt me like that? And yet here I sat, just as she had, letting one person tear me apart.

"No!" I snapped at myself.

"No, this won’t happen."

I wiped the tears from my cheeks—not gently this time, but with a sharp, determined jerk.

The pain was still there, pulsing in my ribs, but I refused to let it rule me.

Hate began to rise in me, slow at first, then with a force that almost scared me.

Hate for Alessandro and the cold ease with which he’d discarded me.

Hate for his staggering arrogance, his complete lack of empathy. But most of all, hate for myself—for giving him this power over me. For letting him hurt me like this.

"Never again," I hissed under my breath, shaking my head as if I could fling the last traces of him out of me.

"Never again will I give him that power."

I swallowed the last of my tears and gripped the steering wheel hard.

If Alessandro Russo, that slimy bastard, thought he could break me like this, he was wrong.

I’d erase him just as thoroughly as he’d erased me.

My mother had let her pain control her, wasted her life in fear, weakness, and grief.

But me? I wouldn’t allow that.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

I would forget him.

Inside me burned a fire, scorching away every trace of doubt, longing, love.

I let it rage.

I fed it with every thought of him.

And one thing was certain: Never again would I give anyone that kind of power over me.