The Extreme Of Infatuation

Elara woke to the metallic tang of blood on her lip, her head pounding with the kind of pain that pulsed deep behind her eyes—sharp and unforgiving, like a warning she had failed to heed. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey, musk, and something colder, more dangerous. Her hands gripped silk sheets she didn’t recognize, and a chill slithered down her spine.

This wasn’t her bed.

She sat up too fast. The room tilted violently, her stomach lurching in protest. Dim light filtered through gauzy curtains, casting long shadows across sleek furniture and unfamiliar walls. Her black dress clung to her like a second skin, wrinkled and askew, and her heels lay discarded on the floor like broken promises.

On the nightstand, a half-full glass of water sat beside a neatly folded note and a small black card. No name. No symbol. Just a number embossed in silver ink.

Her fingers trembled as she opened the note.

*You were interesting. Call me when you stop running.*

— X

She read it again.

And again.

A name wasn’t necessary. Whoever he was, he clearly believed she’d remember him. Her breath caught—jagged and sharp.

Running? From what?

She didn’t get the chance to dwell. The door creaked open, and she stilled, every muscle tensing.

A man stepped inside.

He moved like he owned the room. Tall, built with quiet strength, dressed in a crisp black shirt that clung to his frame just enough to be dangerous. His pale eyes locked onto her—steady, cold, unreadable.

He looked like someone who wasn’t used to hearing no.

“You’re awake earlier than I expected,” he said, voice smooth, edged with something darker. “Most people sleep off a blackout longer than that.”

Elara’s fingers curled into the sheet as if it could shield her. “Who the hell are you?” Her voice came out hoarse. “Where am I?”