THREE
I stared at the black wig and the black mask I had carefully positioned on the dummy in my walk-in wardrobe. They stared back at me with the charged truth of what they represented.
Last night had been everything I didn’t know I needed – an unravelling, a temporary release, a breath of life into my dead lungs.
I hadn’t expected it to affect me this deeply.
Just days ago, the thought of stepping into that world, into Obsidian, had terrified me.
I was convinced it would only dig deeper scars into wounds that still bled in streams.
But then I saw Ghost’s profile picture on the platform.
It didn’t even reveal much – just the dark mask and the subtle curve of his jaw – but it stopped me in my tracks.
There was something about him, something that pulled me in, and I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.
I had taken the plunge, stepping into a world that promised anonymity and control but delivered something far more profound.
And now, standing here in the light of day, I was so fucking glad I had gone.
Some part of me had frozen over the day I’d left the States, always waiting for Travis to find me – for a knock, a shadow, a message. But last night…
Last night I had finally exhaled.
For the first time in years, I’d slept without the weight of Travis’ spectre haunting me. Ghost hadn’t just touched my body; he’d reached into the darkest corners of my mind, scattering the shadows my ex had left behind. Even an ocean away, I hadn’t been able to escape him – until now.
Travis’ knife had been a weapon, carving fear into my very soul.
But Ghost’s was different. Every careful graze of steel against my skin was tempered by his voice, his steady reminders of the safe words.
He gave me control, praised me when I took the leap.
And in his gaze – hungry and reverent in equal parts – I felt seen.
As though he’d stripped away every remnant of fear and replaced it with something raw that liberated me.
I would have given him more if the contract had allowed. A part of me resented those rules, those barriers that kept us from crossing the line. But maybe it was for the best. The control, the restraint – it made me feel safe in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
Because safety wasn’t a luxury for women like me. We existed in the cracks between vigilance and calculation. Ghost, in his paradox of danger and discipline, peeled off that first layer and made me believe I could have it again – that safety.
For the first time, all memories of Travis faded into nothing.
Ghost had done what I thought impossible – he had done me a miracle in that short space of time.
Not just dampened the past, but also brought back the parts of myself I had hidden away.
And now, the thought of seeing him again felt less like a desire and more like a need.
He wasn’t just a man I’d seen one night. He was a mirror, reflecting the parts of me I had forsaken – the desire to let go, to surrender. For one night, he had been both captor and liberator – a contradiction that still left me thirsty.
I firmly shut the sliding wardrobe door, sealing Scarlett away for two days.
I was Paula again; the author of horror romance, piecing her life back together one uncertain step at a time.
Two job interviews loomed ahead, neither of which I was looking forward to – but I needed the money.
Ghost had freed me temporarily from Travis, but freedom didn’t pay for roofs or peace.
If I ever wanted to own my space, my body, and my story, I needed to claw it back inch by inch, with my own hands – and a goddamn CV, as it turned out.
The thought of going back to work after five years of only writing felt daunting. Back in the States, my life had been consumed by survival. Here in Italy, it had been consumed by avoidance. And now? Now, I was left grasping for a future I wasn’t sure how to build.
I sighed, brushing a hand through my blonde hair as I prepared to face the day.
I was genuinely thrilled I’d forced myself to go to the hairdresser and rejoin the ranks of the vaguely human. Hermit life had its perks – a semblance of safety, solitude, freedom from surprises. But it did absolutely fuck all for my appearance.
I stopped that thought where it sprouted – first coffee.
Giuliano’s café was my morning ritual – a small comfort in a sea of uncertainties. Today was no different, except for the fact that Ghost lingered in the back of my mind.
He could be anyone – a businessman, a criminal, maybe even a man of faith with secrets tucked into a collar.
I nearly laughed aloud, but I caught myself mid-chuckle and buried my nose in my phone to hide it – before someone took me for a madwoman.
I wondered if he was older. Younger? Scarred, or as devastatingly handsome as his body suggested?
My gaze snagged on a man two tables away. Dark hair, quiet. For a heartbeat, I let my thoughts stray – could it be him? No – his shoulders weren’t broad enough, his forearms bare of any ink. Ghost had a presence, a gravity no one could fake. This man, while attractive, wasn’t him.
Still, I couldn’t help the way my body tensed at the thought. The idea that Ghost could be walking among the everyday crowd, slipping unnoticed through the cracks of normal life.
The man I’d been absently staring at caught my glance and offered a small, polite smile. I quickly looked away as heat crept up my neck.
There was no point in imagining things. Ghost wasn’t here. He wasn’t anyone I would meet in the daylight. He was a creature of the night, a phantom who belonged to the shadows.
But even as I sipped my macchiato, I couldn’t stop the thought from tearing through my barriers.
What if I was wrong? What if he was closer than I thought?
The waiter set a fresh glass of water on the table and slid today’s newspaper across to me with a polite nod. I smiled back, murmuring a quick ‘Grazie,’ though my mind was already elsewhere.
My Italian was improving, but it still had gaps that forced me to read more slowly and parse each word carefully. Still, I liked the ritual: sifting through the pages as if I belonged here, as if this tiny café and its morning rhythm were my own.
Flicking through the sections, I absorbed the sound of paper rustling, blending with the ambient hum of conversation and clinking cups.
Politics, sports, culture – all skimmed past until I found the part I was actually looking for: the job ads.
I folded the paper neatly, scanning the column with a growing sense of resignation.
Mostly listings for cleaners and nannies, as usual.
I pursed my lips. Neither was particularly enticing, especially since I was less than skilled at either.
Cleaning? Sure, I could manage my own space, but professionally?
Hard pass. As for nannying, well… I had zero patience for the chaos that came with other people’s children.
The thought of wrangling sugar-fuelled gremlins for minimum wage? Hard pass.
I sighed, about to fold the newspaper back up and call it another loss, when my eyes hooked onto a heading at the bottom of the page.
The ad was small, almost nondescript, tucked between mundane postings. But its bold headline in crisp Italian immediately grabbed my attention.
‘Writer and Editor Wanted – English Proficiency Required.’
I sucked in a breath, skimming over the description.
A private author was looking for someone fluent in English, preferably with experience in creative writing. The requirements were like a checklist of my skills, and I almost laughed at how absurdly perfect it seemed.
I reread the text again – just for good measure.
And then my heart sank – the interviews were today! At noon! Which left me little time to get ready properly. I would have to pop into the flat to grab my best-sellers without showering or changing clothes.
A buzz started low in my gut – part dread, part hope – a thrill of possibility rushing through me.
Maybe this was the shift I needed: the beginning of something new that could finally pull me out of the limbo I’d lived in for so long. And perhaps, even break down the fear that had begun to solidify in my veins until I couldn’t even go to the grocery store without looking over my shoulder.
It didn’t matter that I had been out of the traditional job market for years. This was an opportunity – one that felt like it had been dropped into my lap by divine intervention.
And maybe a job would take my mind off Ghost and allow me to face him without vanishing into him. It would be easy to lose myself in what we’d begun.
Ultimately, it was either this or therapy – and therapy hadn’t helped me before.
God, how annoying.
I used to be more of a hands-on, do-or-die kind of woman. I wanted to be that woman again – confident and free. And to get back to that, I had to step out of my comfort zone.
Grabbing my phone, I took a photo of the ad, my mind racing with ideas.
This could be it – the first real step towards reclaiming the life I wanted.
A job was stability. And stability meant survival – a tether to the real world.
Ghost’s mask flashed before my eyes, the memory of his voice still ringing in my ears.
I took a sip of water, its coolness coursing through me as my determination to keep seeing him grew.
Two days until then.
But for now, life needed my full attention.
‘Chapter fifteen,’ I muttered, glaring at the blinking cursor like it might miraculously deliver the words I needed.
This was meant to be the pivotal moment – the culmination where my characters finally unravelled under the weight of their desires. But the page stayed blank, and the scene in my head felt as lifeless as the screen in front of me.
My stories weren’t just about lust, they were about surrender, control, and the razor-thin line between them. But that line had blurred at some point – dulled.