CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
LILA
What the hell was that?
“Hello?” I call again, louder this time. No answer.
Just the pulse of “Call Out My Name” by The Weeknd flowing through the speakers. The sound is slow, smooth, and sinful. It slithers around my throat, making everything feel darker, heavier. I barely breathe. My feet feel like cement. My lungs? Barely functional.
What kind of moan was that? Was it pain? Was it pleasure? Was it muffled? Like someone with tape over their mouth?
My mind spirals.
Kidnapping. Torture. Sex. Secrets. I don’t know which scenario terrifies me more.
I swallow hard.
I need to wake up from this nightmare. But I’m wide awake, still searching for the exit to the maze.
I scan the room, desperate for a moment to anchor myself, and I spot a set of tall glass doors leading to the balcony.
I slide one open and step into the cool night air.
It rakes across my skin like icy fingers.
I inhale, deep and slow, searching for any sign of life, but there is nothing.
No movement. No voices. Just me… and the nonsense in my head.
I stare at the dark horizon, replaying every possible scenario, each one darker than the last. I turn to go back inside. That is when I see it. A clear glass sauna door, tucked into the far corner of the gym, practically hidden behind the mirrored wall. My lungs beg for air.
Oh my God .
Steam swirls behind the glass, thick and hazy and alive. The sauna is on. Someone is inside. And then I hear it again. Deep. Rough. Masculine. Definitely human. Definitely not in pain. And definitely not innocent.
No. No. No. Not again. Dammit! Why does this always happen to me?
My body tightens. My clit throbs with heat. And instead of turning away, I stare. I can’t stop looking. I will not stop looking. Something about this is pulling me in, like my desire is louder than my fear.
Yep. My kink is voyeurism. Officially.
I step closer, heart pounding in my chest like a warning, telling me to stop, to turn away. But I ignore it. I get a little closer, trying to see something. Anything. Anyone.
No one is supposed to be here. So who the hell is? Do they have a sexy cousin? A secret friend with zero shame?
The glass is so fogged that I can barely make out anything. Just the silhouette of a man. He is lounging back, movements deliberate, head tilted in pleasure, touching himself. My thighs clench. The wetness between my legs soaks through my panties.
Do not do it, Lila. Do not touch yourself.
But the music thrums. The lyrics are sensual and raw, sending goosebumps up my arms and down my spine. This feels like a game. A dirty, twisted, intimate game… with myself.
This is not the time. It is 2:00 a.m. There is a stranger in this house. And here I am. Soaking wet. Panties ruined. Playing Peeping Tom. I should leave. I should run. I should be calling the police or at least pretending to be a responsible human being.
But instead… I stare. The steam rises just enough. And that is when I see it. His hand, wrapped tight around his cock, stroking, slowed and controlled. Every movement is laced with pleasure, like he is savoring the tension.
God help me… I have never seen anything like this. Not in real life. Not in this kind of proximity. Not like this.
I gasp, quietly, but I can’t look away. I track every slow pull of his hand, every subtle shift in his body, like I am hypnotized. But something catches my eye. Something shiny.
Wait. What is that? Maybe jewelry? Maybe metal of some sort?
I squint. And that’s when I realize there are piercings. Up and down his shaft. A Jacob’s ladder. My lips part in silent shock.
Oh, great, now my standards are broken beyond repair.
I’ve never seen one before, but Aster once told me they are heavenly. Heat pulses between my thighs. My body practically begs me to keep watching.
His moans deepen. The rhythm of his hand grows more urgent. And suddenly, I am panting with him, matching his breath, matching his heat. But I am still holding back, still restraining myself, fighting the desperate urge to touch myself.
Then he stands and braces himself against the glass.
I can ’t see his face. But across his chest, slick with sweat, is something I can see.
A tattoo. Large. Intricate. Sprawled across his heart like a memory etched in ink.
I don’t move or breathe because I know that tattoo.
The sadness in it. The emptiness. The elegance wrapped in loneliness.
Just like the night of the Halloween party. This is him. This is the Phantom.
I stare, not because of his muscles. Though God knows, those alone are worthy of worship.
But because what I could not see that night is now completely, unmistakably clear.
Etched across the center of his chest is a detailed rendering of the inside of the Majestic Opera House in New York City, where The Phantom of the Opera once came to life .
The seats are empty, the stage deserted, like a memory frozen in time.
It is cathedral-level beauty. Arched domes.
Carved molding. A chandelier inked with such delicate precision, I can almost see it glint.
Every seat below is empty. Every detail feels like mourning.
It spans over his chest, positioned perfectly over his heart.
The chandelier is the centerpiece. It hangs exactly where his pulse beats.
This is not just a tattoo. It’s a secret refuge carved into skin. And somehow, it makes him even more untouchable. Like the Phantom is carrying an entire world I was never supposed to see. Then his hand slams against the glass. His pace quickens.
“Yes. Oh God, yes.” My blood turns molten. “Right there, Lila.” My eyes snap open wider.
Did he just call my name? No. I must have imagined that. I had to.
But then it happens again. “Lila. You’re such a good girl.”
My breath catches so hard it hurts. My lungs forget how to work. Every muscle in my body stiffens like I’ve been turned to stone.
He said it. He said my name.
Adrenaline floods my veins. Heat rushes straight to my thighs, my core, my trembling hands. I watch, paralyzed, as he swirls his thumb around his tip. His strokes become faster. Rougher. Then comes release.
He finishes right into his hand. The shadow of his head tips back.
Sweat glistens across his skin as he pants from inside the sauna.
And yet, I feel like I am the one trapped behind the glass door.
The sauna presses in around me, thick with heat and heavy silence.
It wraps around my skin like his presence, deliberate and suffocating.
I am smoldering, breathless, flushed from the inside out.
Like, I am the one being devoured. Not by steam. By him. Needing. Aching.
To see his face. To know the truth. To finally unmask the man who haunts me. The Phantom. The red mask.
I force myself to turn away. To leave. To not get caught again. Not like this. But then I hear it. The sauna door creaks open. A rush of steam rolls out. It curls around my legs like the eerie fog in the haunted maze.
Do not turn around. Do not turn around. Just go.
But I can’t. Not when I have come this far. Not after chasing this shadow through every twisted path, every aching memory. Not when I am this close to finally seeing the man who made me feel whole. Like I belonged. Like I was seen. Wanted. Craved. Accepted.
I turn, and my heart cracks.
No.
It shatters.
Because standing in front of me, a towel slung low on his hips, chest glistening with sweat, breath shallow from release, are those eyes. Those ice blue eyes. Locked on mine. Equally stunned. Equally exposed.
Kage.
The Halloween party. The night I walked in on the Phantom. It was his room. The night he chuckled at me, watched me finish, and let me leave like it meant nothing. He knew. This whole time, he knew.
He steps toward me, but I instinctively back away.
“Lila, I can explain.”
I keep moving.
My hand searches blindly behind me for the door, for a way out, for air. But his words from the maze echo louder than my heartbeat. “You never turn your back when you are being hunted.”
I won’t turn around. My eyes refuse to leave his. Not now. Not after everything.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. This was not a love story. It was a game. No. A fucking joke.
“Lila, please.”
I stop, frozen, staring into the eyes I have looked into a hundred times. Just behind green contacts. And now? There is no mask. No darkness to hide behind. Just him.
Kage.
I have questions. My voice is flat. Calm and stripped of feeling, numb to the pain that’s been tearing through my chest since the moment I saw his face. His jaw tenses.
“Did I walk into your room at the Halloween party?” I ask. “Yes.” His voice is steady. His face gives me nothing.
“Was it you in the red mask in the maze?”
“Yes.”
“Was it you in the pleasure room with me at the club?”
He hesitates, but only for a breath. “Yes.”
Tears roll down my face . “Was it you who was watching me on the cameras in my apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Was it you in the ballroom when you left me alone in the dark, heartbroken?”
“Yes.” His body stays perfectly still. I search his face, but I still cannot tell what he is thinking.
“Was it you who danced with me at the masquerade party tonight?”
“Yes. ”
My voice breaks on the next one. “Kage… are you the Phantom?”
He meets my eyes. He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
The lump in my throat swells so thick, I feel like I might choke. I have been manipulated. I have been toyed with. I have been hunted. And then, the final question. The one that burns the loudest. The one that rips the floor out from under me. Last question.
I whisper, “Are you the man in the Red Mask?”
He doesn’t flinch. He does not lie. “Yes.”
My knees buckle as they hit the hard floor.
Warm blood seeps from the cut, but even that pain is nothing compared to what Kage has done to me.
How can I loathe the man who broke me and still yearn for him to be the one to put me back together?