Chapter 8 #2
After the call, I sit there for a while, staring at the window, at the city that never stops moving.
Her words keep circling in my head.
Monsters only have power in the dark.
I don’t know if I believe that yet. But somehow, it feels a little less suffocating to breathe.
Slowly, I push myself out of bed.
My body feels heavy, like I’ve aged a decade overnight. I move on instinct—shower, makeup, hair. Layer after layer, I rebuild the armor.
My suit today is sharp—navy blue, clean lines and a cinched waist that makes me look more in control than I feel. A muted red lipstick, soft and understated. A touch of mascara just enough to open my eyes. And around my wrist, a thin red bracelet—barely visible, but always there.
Once, I used to wear red boldly.
Now, it’s just a quiet reminder of the girl I used to be.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is polished, composed.
Unbreakable.
But under the surface, I know better. Still, I keep moving.
By the time I step into the elevator, my expression is calm, distant—perfect.
I walk into the office as if nothing happened.
Greg waves from across the floor, too caught up in a call to notice much. Adriana flashes me a brief smile.
Everything feels… normal.
Until it isn’t.
“Della,” Greg calls out as soon as he hangs up, his tone bright. “We’ve got a client meeting in ten. Big one.”
I nod, keeping my features smooth.
Ten minutes later, I’m seated in the conference room—laptop open, the client sheet pulled up in a side tab, notes highlighted, ready to play my part.
I straighten in my chair, crossing one leg over the other, smoothing the hem of my dress. A slow breath in. Then a glance at the door.
And then he walks in.
Dorian Marshall.
Dressed head-to-toe in black—tailored charcoal suit, open-collared shirt, no tie. Effortless. Controlled. Like he owns the room. What room?! The whole freakin’ building.
His hair brushes the collar of his jacket, just long enough to soften the sharpness of his jaw. His presence hits first. Then his eyes.
They lock onto mine the moment he enters—steady, deliberate, as if he’s here for no one else.
My breath catches, but I don’t let it show.
Greg stands to greet him; all charm and excitement.
“Mr. Marshall,” he says, offering his hand. “We’re thrilled to have you here.”
Dorian returns the handshake with quiet authority.
“The pleasure is mine,” he replies, his tone calm but clipped. Then his eyes flick back to me—burning, searching, unreadable.
“After our conversation at the restaurant,” he adds, gaze anchored on me now, “I decided it was worth exploring a collaboration.”
His words carry a double meaning, one that’s impossible to miss.
Without waiting for a reply, he takes the chair directly across from me—close enough for his cologne to find its way across the table. Dark. Familiar.
Greg launches into his pitch, eager and energetic.
I focus on the screen, pretending to type notes I won’t remember later. My heartbeat’s too loud to think.
Then Dorian speaks again.
“I’ve been reviewing several agencies,” he says casually, “but I’m particularly interested in your team.”
Greg beams. “We’d love to collaborate.”
Dorian leans back slightly—a controlled gesture.
“On one condition.”
His tone is smooth, polite—but firm in that way that doesn’t allow negotiation. His eyes turn to me.
“Miss Toma will be my direct contact for the project. All meetings, communications, negotiations—through her.”
I stop breathing for a second. My fingers freeze on the keyboard.
Greg nods, clearly surprised but already calculating.
“Of course,” he says, flashing a quick glance at me. “Della’s technically with our international office, but we’ll adjust her assignment if needed. We’ll find a way.”
He’s too eager for this deal to risk saying no.
My face doesn’t flinch. Inside, my pulse is roaring.
Dorian watches me. Quiet. Certain. Unshakable.
“It’s settled then,” he says, a quiet finality in his voice.
Greg grins, already excited about the deal.
But I know better.
This isn’t business. This is personal.
And it’s only the beginning.
* * *
The meeting wraps up, and everyone stands to leave. But Dorian doesn’t move.
As I gather my things, I feel him approach—unhurried, deliberate.
“Della,” he says, his voice low, meant only for me. “We need to finish that conversation from the restaurant.”
I keep my face composed.
“No, we don’t, Mr. Marshall.”
His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something sparking beneath the calm—challenge or something else, I can’t tell.
“One meeting,” he says, his voice smooth but steady. “That’s all I’m asking. Please.”
I turn to leave, but his next words stop me cold.
“Or,” he adds, softer now, with dangerous calm, “I’ll show up here. Every day. All day. Until you agree.”
I draw a slow breath, feeling the tension coil tighter around my spine.
Then, somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Alexandra’s voice:
Monsters only have power in the dark. Do it for you. Not him.
And I know it’s time to shed some light on my monsters—not all, but at least some. Just enough to have some peace, again.
I glance at him, my expression cool, unreadable. But my decision is already made.
“One meeting,” I say, my voice sharp. “That’s it.”
I tilt my chin slightly, motioning toward the door—a clear dismissal.
Dorian only smiles—slow, faint, nothing like victory. Just something quieter. He steps back, his movement smooth, measured.
As he passes by, far too close, the air shifts—thick with something I can’t name.
I can feel the heat of him, every breath, every inch.
He leans in just enough that I catch the low, deliberate murmur.
“Good.”
His gaze drops—lingers for half a second too long on my lips before pulling away.
I don’t wait for more.
I turn and walk out, fast, my heels sharp against the floor.
But I feel it—the weight of his eyes, trailing me every step of the way.