Chapter 1

The sheets were cold where his body had been.

I watched Kane Miller slide out of bed, his back a canvas of sharp lines and muscle. He moved with a detached grace, an economy of motion that left no room for a lingering touch.

For a moment, I let myself remember the heat of his skin against mine, the weight of him, the rough scrape of his stubble on my neck. It was a fleeting warmth in the sterile chill of his penthouse.

He paused by the window, the city lights of New York painting a harsh silhouette. He wasn't looking at the view. His gaze was distant, lost somewhere I couldn't follow. It happened every time. A brief, almost imperceptible disconnect, as if the man in front of me was just a shell.

I pushed myself up on my elbows, the silk sheet pooling around my waist. The movement drew his attention. His eyes, the color of slate, met mine. There was no warmth in them, only a cool assessment.

He walked back to the bed. His hand landed on my hip, not a caress, but an anchor. He pressed me back into the mattress, his weight a familiar, commanding presence. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

I closed my eyes and let him guide me, my body responding on instinct. I wanted to feel something, anything, to bridge the chasm between us. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, seeking a kiss that went deeper than the surface.

He allowed it, his lips moving against mine with practiced skill but no real passion.

When it was over, he pulled away instantly. The space he left was cold again.

He stood and began to dress, his movements efficient and precise. He put on his watch, a dark, expensive piece that matched the coldness in his eyes. There was no afterglow, no shared silence. Just the quiet rustle of fabric as he put his armor back on.

I sat up and mechanically started gathering my own clothes from the floor. My actions felt robotic, a routine I had performed too many times.

Kane walked over to the bookshelf. His fingers brushed against a row of leather-bound classics before stopping at a small, almost invisible panel. A soft click echoed in the room. He was turning off the camera.

He stared at the hidden lens for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

I remembered the first time he asked. It wasn't a request, it was a condition. My stomach had twisted, a knot of shame and confusion. He said it was for his "peace of mind," a way to remember. I was desperate. I was in debt to his mother for a sum that felt like a mountain, and this was my only way to pay it. So I said yes.

I remembered the first time we met. Mrs. Miller had arranged it. He was a ghost, a recluse hiding in this glass tower. My job was simple: draw him out. Be his companion, his muse, whatever he needed to feel human again. I was an artist, and his mother saw me as a tool to fix her broken son.

For a while, I thought I was succeeding. He was wounded, mysterious. A puzzle I was desperate to solve. I painted him, sketched him, learned the contours of his face and the shadows in his eyes. I fell for the man I thought I was saving.

The attraction was undeniable. We fell into bed one night, a collision of my hope and his silent, desperate need. It felt real.

But the relationship came with two rules.

One: Never ask about his past.

Two: He records everything.

I finished dressing and walked over to him. I ejected the tiny memory card from the hidden slot.

"Here," I said, my voice flat. I held it out to him.

He glanced at it, then back at me. "Leave it on the desk."

He didn't care. He never did. He never watched them with me. He took them and disappeared into his study for hours.

I knew why now.

The memory of that discovery was burned into my mind. It was a few weeks ago. I'd brought him coffee, entering his study without knocking for the first time. He wasn't there, but his laptop was open. On the screen was a video.

It was me. My body, my movements, the curve of my back as I arched against him.

But the face wasn't mine.

It was Coral's. My stepsister. Her face, flawlessly superimposed onto my body, moaning his name. The video was one of dozens, a catalog of our time together, all of it altered, twisted into a fantasy he built around another woman.

He was obsessed with her. I was just the body double, a convenient substitute because I looked enough like her from a distance. The same dark hair, the same slender frame. Close enough for his technology to do the rest.

Every tender word he' d ever spoken, every moment I thought was a breakthrough, was for her. He was looking at me, but he was seeing Coral.

My heart, which had once beaten so wildly for him, felt like a dead weight in my chest. The love I' d nurtured had turned to ash.

"Eva," Kane's voice cut through my thoughts, pulling me back to the cold penthouse. He was buttoning his shirt. "Get me a glass of water."

It wasn't a request.

I walked to the kitchen, my movements stiff. I filled a glass from the tap and brought it to him, my fingers numb.

He took it without a word of thanks, draining it in one go.

"I have a business trip to Geneva. I'll be gone for a week," he announced, adjusting his tie in the mirror.

"I see," I said. My voice was calm, but there was a tremor deep inside me.

He turned, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You seem... different."

"Just tired," I lied, a bitter smile touching my lips. "Have a good trip. I hope it's 'fruitful'."

He studied my face for a moment longer, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. He couldn't see the change in me. He had never really seen me at all.

He nodded once, then turned and walked out the door without a backward glance.

The lock clicked shut, sealing me in the silence.

I looked down at the memory card still in my hand. A small, hollow laugh escaped my lips.

My mission was over.

Mrs. Miller wanted me to bring her son back to the world.

I had. Just not for me.

My heart was finally, completely broken. And in that breaking, I found a sliver of freedom.