Ana stood frozen.
The rose was still there—blood red against her windowsill, dew-kissed and fresh, like it had been placed only minutes ago.
He was here.
Not last night. This morning.
Panic clawed at her throat. She hadn't heard anything. No footsteps. No knock. No creak of the floorboards.
But the rose said everything.
Hayden Moretti wasn't just watching her.
He was inside her life now.
And she had no idea how to stop him.
She rushed to her front door, checked the locks, then paced in a circle. Her thoughts spiraled faster than she could grab them. What did he want? Why now? Why her?
Her mind flashed back to that night by the river. His voice. His scent. His eyes.
God, his eyes.
Like he could ruin her with a look.
And part of her—shamefully, stupidly—had wanted to know what that ruin would taste like.
But Ana Nicholas wasn't a fool.
She just had to stay calm. Stay alert. Stay away from him.
She didn't know Hayden's game yet. But if he thought she was going to play it willingly, he was wrong.
Dead wrong.
She didn't expect him to come to her gallery.
Not dressed in a black suit and tailored coat, walking in like he owned the marble beneath his feet.
But that's exactly what he did.
At noon, as the sunlight sliced through the tall glass walls, Hayden Moretti stepped inside La Vita Galeria—and the entire atmosphere shifted. Conversations stopped. Every woman in the room turned. Even the art seemed to lose color next to him.
Ana's blood ran cold.
"You don't belong here," she said when he reached her.
He looked around. "You'd be surprised. Art is one of the few places people lie with style."
She crossed her arms. "You have five seconds to leave before I scream."
He smiled slowly. "No, you won't."
That infuriating calm. That smug certainty.
"Try me," she said through her teeth.
"I'm not here to hurt you, Ana." His voice lowered. "I'm here to tell you the truth."
"You've stalked me across continents. Left roses at my window like a psychopath. That is hurt."
His eyes narrowed—just a flicker of ice behind black flame.
"I warned you that night by the river," he said. "If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't leave flowers."
"Then what do you want?" she snapped.
He leaned closer. Close enough that she could smell the cologne again. Leather, spice, sin.
"I want your attention," he whispered.
"You already have it," she hissed. "Now leave."
But Hayden didn't move. He lifted his hand slowly—and held out something.
A small, square envelope.
Black.
Sealed with red wax.
She stared at it like it might burn her fingers. "What is that?"
"An invitation," he said. "To dinner. My penthouse. Tonight. Eight."
"You think I'm stupid?"
"I think you're curious," he said, voice velvet and venom. "And I think you want answers."
Ana didn't take the envelope. She didn't say anything at all.
But her silence was loud enough.
Hayden smiled. "Wear red."
Then he turned and left.
She should've stayed home.
She should've ripped the envelope, called the police, moved cities, changed names again.
But when the clock struck 7:45, Ana stood in front of a mirror, wearing the only red dress she owned. Silk. Off-shoulder. Slit to the thigh.
She hated herself for putting it on.
Hated the tremble in her fingers as she applied lipstick.
Hated the voice in her head that whispered, You want him to see you like this.
She arrived at the penthouse ten minutes late.
The building was a fortress—doormen, private elevators, fingerprint scanners. Clearly bought by blood money.
But when the doors opened at the top floor, what stole her breath wasn't the luxury.
It was him.
Hayden stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of bourbon in his hand, city lights flickering behind him like stars bowing at his feet.
"You came," he said without turning.
"Don't flatter yourself," she said, stepping inside. "I came for answers."
He faced her then—and the way his gaze swept over her body made her skin burn.
"You wore red," he said, voice rough.
"I wore armor."
He walked toward her slowly, the air between them growing thick, electric.
"I'll give you your answers," he said, "but not all at once. I want something in return."
Ana stiffened. "I'm not playing games."
"This isn't a game." He stopped inches from her. "It's a transaction."
She swallowed. "What kind of transaction?"
"One dinner. One question. One answer."
Her chest rose and fell. "And if I say no?"
"I'll still get what I want," he murmured. "Eventually."
The heat between them was unbearable. Her skin prickled. Her pulse throbbed.
She hated him.
She wanted him.
And that made her hate herself more.
"Fine," she said. "One dinner. One question."
They ate by candlelight on the terrace—Italian wine, steak, roasted figs. Ana barely touched her food. Hayden watched her more than he ate.
At the end, she finally said it.
"My question."
He nodded.
She looked him dead in the eye. "Why me?"
His stare didn't flinch.
"Because you're the daughter of the man who burned my mother alive."
The words sliced the air like a dagger.
Ana froze.
"I was nine," he continued, voice steel. "You were ten. I saw you that night. I remember the bow in your hair. And I remember thinking…"
He stood and leaned in.
"…I'd use you to destroy him."
She slapped him.
Hard.
The sound echoed across the terrace.
He didn't flinch.
She stood, eyes blazing. "You son of a—"
He caught her wrist.
And for a moment—just one—his mask cracked.
There was grief in his gaze.
Rage.
Desire.
"You were never supposed to be this beautiful," he whispered.
Then he released her.
Ana ran for the elevator without another word.
And this time, she didn't stop him from watching her leave.