3. "No man passed by me without looking back."
He looked like sin wrapped in a three-piece suit.
I was halfway down the staircase when the front door opened, and the air in the house shifted, becoming heavy and charged. Like the universe had sucked in a breath and forgotten how to exhale.
Then I saw him.
Zayden Ashford.
Older. Sharper. Colder.
The boy I used to steal glances at from behind bookshelves was gone. This man—this dangerously controlled, suit-clad version of him—was something else entirely.
He filled the room with a quiet intensity, the kind that didn't need to announce itself. Broad shoulders under that tailored coat. Dark eyes that missed nothing. Jaw clenched like the weight of the world lived there, and maybe it did.
He didn't recognise me.
I paused on the stairs, letting him drink me in from head to toe. His gaze landed on me like it was accidental, then lingered like it wasn't. Something flickered in those eyes—confusion, interest, irritation—all tangled together in one long, heated sweep.
Good. He could look all he wanted.
I wasn't the little Aurelia he knew from our childhood.
No more shy smiles or fading into the background.
"Zayden," his mother said, following his gaze, "you remember Aurelia, don't you?"
His head abruptly snapped towards his mother, eyes wide as if she had spoken something utterly astonishing... or offensive.
His jaw ticked as he returned his attention to me, realising who I was.
I didn't know why it seemed so satisfying.
"Hi, Zayden." I said smoothly, confidently, meeting his gaze head-on despite his intimidating aura and his towering stature.
He seemed to sweep his emotions under a mask of coldness and disinterest as he uttered an emotionless, "hi."
"Mom didn't mention you'd be here." He spoke, his voice controlled and almost monotonous.
I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not exactly a stranger to this house. I've been coming here for years."
"Good to see you." He replied curtly, as if he was eager to end the conversation.
As if I hadn't noticed his lingering gaze over all the exposed areas of my body.
My lips curled into a smile that was more for show than genuine. "Likewise."
It wasn't entirely false though. I was indeed glad to see him.
He didn't respond. Just stared, jaw clenched, eyes darker now. Like he'd stepped into a room and found a ticking bomb.
It was high time he stopped treating me like a nuisance. Like someone forgettable, someone he could turn a blind eye to.
He could pretend that he did not care or that he was indifferent to my presence.
It was too late. I had already seen the way he looked at me.
I could still remember the first time I met Zayden Ashford.
Even then, as a young boy, he was cold, arrogant and a guy of few words. He spoke more with his ice cold stares and angry glares than his tongue.
I was shy, clumsy, always clueless and scared.
He'd taken one look at me and said, "She's weird."
Just like that.
No hello. No smile. Just a flat judgment from a boy who didn't have time for kids like me. Messy, clumsy, silly kids like me.
He never liked me after that, and made sure to make it very obvious.
Most of our encounters would end up with me embarrassing myself and him realising more and more just how cloddish I was. Always dropping things. Always trailing behind during family dinners or getting tongue-tied when he'd walk into a room.
He barely looked at me unless I was doing something wrong.
And I always was.
Once, when I tripped and spilled orange juice on his sneakers, he looked at me like I'd committed a crime. Cold, annoyed, disgusted.
"Do you ever do anything right?!" He yelled in my face.
I'd cried in the bathroom for ten minutes after that.
He didn't even know. Even if he had known, he wouldn't have cared.
It wasn't just that. Anytime I would sit next to him hoping for a sliver of his attention—I just wanted to be friends—he'd stand up and walk away like I had the plague.
It hurt my poor little heart like hell.
Then that one time I offered him my cookies, hoping it would ease the tension between us, prompting him to befriend me. What did he do? Glared at me like I had offered him poison and told me to leave.
And I'd stood there, holding that dumb plate of chocolate chip cookies like it was a peace offering in a war I didn't even understand.
Then there was my twelfth birthday. Both our families had gone to the lake house. Everyone was playing volleyball on the sand. I wasn't good at sports—coordination had never been my strong suit—but I wanted to try.
Zayden groaned when I joined his team.
"Great," he muttered. "We'll lose for sure."
I pretended I hadn't heard him.
I still remember the way my cheeks burned, the way my fingers trembled when I served the ball too short and it didn't even clear the net. The way he didn't even try to hide his sigh of disappointment.
There were countless incidents of the sort. Bitter memories that pricked my heart like a painful thorn. Things he probably didn't even remember he did, but if he only knew how deeply every rude or neglectful act of his hurt me.
Funny how the people who barely notice you can leave the deepest marks.
Zayden Ashford only cared about things and people who were groomed and flawless.
And back then I was far from any of that.
But now?
I didn't trip over my words or apologize for taking up space. I didn't hide behind anyone's back or cower from eye contact.
Now I looked men like Zayden Ashford in the eye and refused to look away.
Now, I wasn't asking for a seat next to him.
I was taking it.
These next few months living under the same roof as him was surely going to be fun. Let's see if he could ignore me now.
No man had ever passed by me without looking back. Zayden Ashford was not going to be any different.