When Love Collides With Dark Past

For two years, I was in love with a man I only knew as C.L. Our anonymous online relationship was my safe haven from a world that terrified me, built on one simple rule: we would never meet.

That rule shattered with a single text. He was a bestselling author, and his publisher was forcing him on a book tour.

"I need to meet you," he wrote. "I can't do this without you."

My social anxiety spiraled. I broke the only rule I could control and told him we should end it. The next morning, my boss ordered me to deliver files to our company's top client-the notoriously private author, Cristian Lancaster. It was him. My anonymous lover was my boss.

He looked devastated, as if he' d been crying over my message, but he treated me like a stranger. I later found out the truth: he' d known who I was for two years, quietly waiting for me to trust him.

But as our worlds finally collided, a jealous manager saw her chance for revenge. She forced me into a dinner with a dangerous man from my past, a man who drugged my drink and drove me toward a desolate road.

As the car sped into the darkness, I hit record on my phone, realizing this was no longer about saving our love story. It was about saving my life.

Chapter 1

Kiana Perkins POV:

For the past two years, I've been in love with a man I've never met. A man I only know as 'C.L.' Today, that all came crashing down.

It started with a message that made my stomach plummet to the floor.

C.L.: They' re making me do a book tour. Across the country. I need to meet you.

My fingers trembled over the screen. This was our one rule. The only rule. No names. No faces. No real world.

Me: You know we can't do that.

C.L.: Kiana, I can't do this without you. Please.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. I typed the words that felt like acid on my tongue.

Me: Then maybe we should end this.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be safe.

It all started so innocently, so ridiculously. Two years ago, I was just another freelance graphic designer, hiding from the world behind my glowing monitor. My online persona, 'Pixel_Perfect,' was everything I wasn' t in real life: sharp, witty, and unafraid. My real life was a carefully curated routine of client emails, Adobe Creative Suite, and avoiding any and all human interaction that wasn' t filtered through a screen.

Then, Cristian Lancaster, the notoriously private, bestselling crime author, blew up my quiet world with a single, baffling post on a professional forum.

It was a public cry for help, disguised as a grumpy rant.

"My publisher insists my public persona is 'unapproachable.' I am attaching my latest author headshot for review. They claim it is 'intimidating.' I write novels about serial killers. Is that not the point? Seeking professional feedback on this matter."

The post was so out of character for the reclusive author that the forum lit up. Most of the comments were from star-struck fans or sycophantic industry types telling him he looked perfect.

They were lying.

I clicked on the attached photo. My breath hitched. It wasn't that he was unattractive. Quite the opposite. Cristian Lancaster had the kind of face that belonged on a Roman statue-sharp jaw, high cheekbones, eyes the color of a stormy sea. He was, objectively, one of the most handsome men I had ever seen.

The problem was, he looked like he was actively plotting to murder the photographer, and possibly the photographer's entire family. His arms were crossed so tightly over his chest they looked like they were part of his ribcage. His jaw was clenched, and his stare could curdle milk. He looked less like a bestselling author and more like a man who had just discovered a rat in his soup.

It was a branding nightmare.

My fingers flew across the keyboard before I could second-guess myself, my 'Pixel_Perfect' persona taking over.

"Unapproachable is a feature, not a bug, for a thriller author. However, there' s a fine line between 'enigmatic genius' and 'escaped convict.' You' ve crossed it. Your posture is screaming 'defensive,' and your expression says you' d rather be undergoing a root canal. You need to look like you write about murder, not like you' re about to commit one. DM me if you want advice that' s actually useful. My rates are reasonable."

I hit send, my heart thudding with a mixture of adrenaline and terror. I had just sassed one of the most successful authors on the planet.

To my utter shock, a private message notification popped up less than a minute later.

C.L.: Your assessment was... blunt. And accurate. What do you suggest?

My anxiety, which had been momentarily silenced by my online bravado, came roaring back. But this was my domain. This was branding. This I could do.

Me: First, uncross your arms. You look like you' re guarding state secrets. Second, relax your jaw. You' re going to crack a tooth. Third, think about something that doesn' t involve dismemberment. Try an intricate plot twist you were particularly proud of. Let' s see another photo.

A few minutes passed. Then, a new image appeared in our chat. It was almost identical to the first.

C.L.: Better?

Me: Marginally. You now look like you' re plotting a slightly less violent crime. Let' s try again. Lean against a bookshelf. Look slightly away from the camera, as if you' ve just been interrupted from a profound thought. And for the love of God, try to look like you don' t hate the entire human race.

He sent another. And another. For the next hour, I acted as his anonymous online art director. I was ruthless, direct, and completely in my element. He was a surprisingly good sport, following my every instruction with a comical level of seriousness.

Finally, he sent a photo that made me stop breathing for a second. He was leaning against a wall of books, a soft light catching the sharp planes of his face. His expression was still serious, but the tension was gone. He just looked... thoughtful. Intense. Exactly like the brilliant, complicated man who wrote my favorite books.

Me: That' s the one. That' s your million-dollar shot.

C.L.: I am in your debt. I would like to compensate you for your time.

Before I could object, a notification from my payment app lit up my screen. "Cristian Lancaster has sent you $5,000."

My blood ran cold.

Cristian Lancaster.

The name stared back at me from the screen. It wasn' t an alias. It wasn' t a pseudonym. It was him. The Cristian Lancaster.

My hands flew to my keyboard, my mind a frantic blur. I immediately went to my personal social media pages, the ones linked to my real name, Kiana Perkins, and frantically set everything to private. My portfolio, my old college photos, my sparse personal posts-all hidden away. The thought of him seeing the real, awkward, anxious me behind the confident 'Pixel_Perfect' avatar sent a wave of nausea through me.

He didn't seem to notice my panic.

C.L.: Please accept it. Your advice was more valuable than anything my publisher's team has provided.

I stared at the payment notification, my finger hovering over the accept button. It was more money than I made in a month. With a deep, shaky breath, I accepted the payment and the terrifying reality that came with it. I was now secretly working for Cristian Lancaster.

The branding advice didn't stop there. It bled into conversations about book covers, website design, and social media strategy. And somewhere between discussing font pairings and color palettes, it became... more.

We talked every day. He' d tell me about his struggles with a plot point; I' d tell him about a difficult client. We discovered a shared love for old movies, rainy days, and a mutual disdain for crowded places. He was nothing like his intimidating public image. Behind the screen, he was shy, endearingly awkward, and possessed a dry wit that made me laugh out loud in my quiet apartment.

He was the only person who understood why I preferred the company of pixels to people. I was the only person who saw the vulnerable man behind the bestselling author.

About six months into our daily chats, he sent a message that made my heart stop.

C.L.: I have to confess something. I look forward to your messages more than I look forward to writing. This is... new for me. I think I' m developing feelings for you.

My carefully constructed digital walls trembled.

Me: You' re developing feelings for a witty avatar and a good eye for typography. You don' t know me.

C.L.: I know your mind. I know your humor. I know how you see the world. That' s more real to me than anything else.

I tried to pull away, terrified of my two worlds colliding. But he was persistent. Not pushy, just... constant. He started sending good morning messages every day, without fail. He' d send pictures of his coffee, his writing desk, a page of a book he was reading. Simple, quiet offerings of his life.

I started with monosyllabic replies. "Morning." "Thanks." "Okay."

But each reply I sent was met with such palpable enthusiasm from him that my resolve began to crumble. He was like a big, lonely golden retriever, and I was finding it harder and harder to resist.

One night, I sent him a link to a video on non-verbal communication cues.

Me: You need to study this. Your online awkwardness is charming. Real-life awkwardness just makes people think you' re a serial killer. Which, to be fair, is on-brand for you, but still.

C.L.: I don' t understand.

I sighed, a small smile playing on my lips. He was hopeless. And I was, against all my better judgment, starting to fall for him.

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