Lana's pov:

By the time I get home, it's 6pm. I park my car in the driveway of our house. 

Our house is pretty big, well, bigger than average, but smaller than the ones people have at Velgrave. My family is decently rich, but doesn’t match their level. We’re not cold, arrogant, or have that mean attitude that every rich person seems to have for no reason. 

I get my stuff, the bag full of snacks and menstrual things Aiden gave me, and head inside. I unlock the door with my keys, freezing when I step in. 

Layla, my older and only sister, is here. She’s wearing a black sweater with blue jeans, her straight hair coming down to just below her elbows. 

“LIAA,” I yell, running to hug her, she runs towards me. She hugs me tight, and I return the hug, burying my head in her shoulder. God, I missed her. 

“Lana!” She exclaimed. 

I smile, a real one, I love my sister. I want to be just like her. She’s strong, beautiful, and intelligent. She was in New York with her boyfriend, Dante, who’s definitely involved in some shady stuff, but he keeps her happy and that’s all I want. Not mom and dad though, they’re always telling her to break up with him, even now, after two years. 

“I missed you.” I pout, I can be this way with my family. All baby-ish and weird. 

“Aww, I missed you too, I was going to come earlier but Dante had some—” She shuts up, remembering that we’re not alone. “Yeah but, I’m here now, babyyy.” She drags it out. 

I roll my eyes, I know she calls me that just to annoy me. She’s four years older than me, twenty-two to my seventeen. Well, eighteen, since my birthday is in a month. 

“Layla,” I groan, shaking my head, “you’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” she says with a shrug and a smirk. “But you love me anyway.”

I can’t argue with that. 

She puts an arm around my neck, looking around weirdly.

“What’s wrong?” I ask and she gives me glare, pulling me upstairs and into my room. She closes the door then lets go of my neck. 

“What is that?” She asks. 

“What is what?” I ask, confused. 

She points at my neck. “It’s a hickey.”

Oh. 

Oh fuck. 

I try to play it cool. “It’s nothing,” I pause, wanting to say mosquito bite but that won’t work. “Evelyn hit me accidentally. You know how chaotic she is.” 

She sighs. “Lana, you don’t have to hide from me, I’m your sister. It was Reeve, right?” 

How does she know? 

I nod slowly, knowing there’s no point in lying anymore. And I hate lying to her, I can lie to anyone, even my parents, but not her. 

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” She asks, serious now, she’s overprotective too, like the rest of my family, but it’s not the suffocating type.

“No… he asked me first,” I say, being honest.

I told her what happened, leaving out the part where he groped my breast, barged in the girl’s bathroom, and gave me that bag with supplies. 

She listens patiently. “Lana… be careful, okay?” She pulls me in a hug. “I don’t want you to get hurt, in any way.” 

And suddenly, I want to cry again. 

I nod in her arms, swallowing the lump back in my throat so I don’t end up crying. 

Instead I say: “He’s annoying…” 

She laughs. “I can tell,” she pauses, then continues, pointing at my neck. “It’s turning into a bruise, you’re lucky mom and dad haven’t seen it yet.” 

I nod. “I’ll wear a turtleneck. I hate those, but wearing a scarf inside would be more suspicious.” I pause. “How was your trip to New York with Mr. Dante?” I tease. 

“It was… awesome. He does so much, too much, but I love it, you know? His intensity matches mine. He’s amazing, and so is New York. We need to visit together sometime.” She says, smiling as if remembering it all over again.

“So he’s not controlling? He doesn’t own you, right?” I ask.

“He owns me, but I own him right back. It’s him or no one for me, Lana.” She states simply, not realizing she sounds so whipped right now. 

I smile sheepishly. “Now mom and dad won’t be too happy to hear that…” 

She rolls her eyes. “They can’t keep hating him. And Lana?”

“Yeah?” 

“Don’t tell them about Reeve. If you need help, call me, okay? I’ll be right here. Tell them only if you want them to erase him from your life.” She says, her expression almost bitter.

“Lia? Did something happen between—” 

“No.” She cuts me off. “C’mon, wear your turtleneck and let’s go, they’re waiting for us.” 

She leaves, leaving me confused. I don’t think too much of it though, Layla did have an argument with them after they found out she was dating Dante. 

When I’m changing into my turtleneck, my eyes go to the red, purple-ish mark on my neck. It’s so bluntly there, unashamed and proud. Just like him. 

My fingers graze it as I look in the mirror, and I wince a little. 

Hickey’s hurt? 

I’m so getting him back for this… just not this way. 

When I head downstairs, the warm sound of their laughter draws my attention. Mom is carrying the plates from the kitchen. Dad follows, holding a small tray with drinks. His tall frame seems to fill the space naturally, and his calm smile always makes me feel like everything is okay. 

Dad always told mom to hire maids, he even did once, but my mom didn’t like it. She says she hates other people interfering in her work. I agree with dad on this one though. If she ever gets tired, dad doesn’t let her even get up from the bed. I love him for that. 

“Well, well, well,” Dad says, setting the drinks down, turning. “Did someone have a rough day?”

I sigh, sinking onto the chair beside Layla on the long dining table. “You could say that.” 

Mom sits beside dad, across from me and Layla. She leans in, “Sweetie, you look pale,” 

Dad nods, touching my forehead to check if I’m warm or not. “You’re slightly hot too, it’s going to turn into a fever if you don’t take medicine.” He says seriously, getting up. 

“It’s okay, it’s not too bad—” 

“Sweetie, you need to take care of yourself.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, handing me the medicine. 

I smile, silently thanking him. And then, my phone buzzes. I pick it up to check who it is and roll my eyes. It’s Aiden.

Satan: Feeling better? 

Satan: Baby, do you want me to sneak in? I’m close by. 

Satan: Will you let me do it again? 

Satan: Please? 

Layla leans in. “Who is that?” 

“No one.” I reply, shaking my head, but I catch her knowing smirk. 

I type a quick ‘No’ and hit send, putting my phone away.

The table is filled with laughter. Layla’s telling some exaggerated story about a pigeon that stole Dante’s coffee in Central Park, and Mom’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe. Even Dad’s smiling wider than usual, shaking his head at how chaotic Layla’s stories always get.

The rest of dinner goes by fast. Layla tells us about her trip to New York, leaving out most parts with Dante. Mom and dad listen, admiring us. It’s not everyday we all sit together and eat. So we take our time, catching up on each other’s lives. Well, the appropriate stuff. 

It feels… nice.
Warm.
Like the kind of night I wish lasted forever.

For a moment, I almost forget the bruise under my turtleneck, the texts on my phone, and the name that makes my heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons.

After dinner, Mom insists on making dessert, chocolate mousse with strawberries, and even though she tries to send us away, Layla and I help anyway. We fall into the same rhythm we always do when she’s home. Layla washes, I dry, Mom arranges everything with her perfectionist touch. Dad hovers, pretending to “supervise” while sneaking bites and pressing kisses to mom, and Layla and I have to look away or groan loudly.

“Dad!” I scold as he tries to grab a strawberry.

He grins, unbothered. “What? I’m checking for poison. Safety first.”

Mom smacks his hand lightly with the wooden spoon, and Layla and I laugh until our stomachs hurt.

By the time we’re done, it’s past nine. We move to the living room, and Layla sprawls out on the couch, scrolling through her phone while Dad watches the news. Mom’s knitting something by the window, her glasses sliding down her nose like they always do.

I sit beside Layla, leaning my head against the cushion. The smell of home — cinnamon, detergent, faint traces of vanilla — fills my nose. I didn’t realize how much I missed this until now.

I want to enjoy it while it lasts. Usually, at least one of us is missing, it’s either Layla for her trips or job, dad for his business trips which he drags mom along with. 

Layla nudges me. “So… are you going to tell me what’s actually going on with that Reeve boy?” 

I groan. “Do we really have to talk about him right now?” 

“Yes,” she says, serious but with a teasing glint. “Because that mark doesn’t look like a one-time thing. You don’t just accidentally end up with that on your neck, Lana.”

I turn my head to face her. “It’s not like that. He’s… complicated.” 

“Oh,” she says, arching a brow. “The famous complicated. I remember when I said that about Dante, and Mom almost banned me from dating altogether.”

“Exactly why I’m not telling her,” I mutter.

She snorts. “Smart, but Lana, Dante and I have sorted it out, okay? I mean, it’s been two years since we started dating so now everything’s going well but… it wasn’t at first.” 

I frown. “What do you mean? Did he hurt you?” I say, already planning ways to murder him.

Her tone softens a little. “No, it’s not what you’re thinking. But complicated doesn’t mean good, Lana. Sometimes, complicated just means dangerous.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. Because she’s right, and hearing it out loud makes my stomach twist.

Layla notices the silence and sighs. “You’re still young, okay? So don’t rush it.” 

I nod softly, playing with a loose thread on the couch. “I just… don’t know what I’m doing.” 

She sits up, wrapping her arm around me again. “No one does. Especially not when it comes to people who make your heart do stupid things.” 

That makes me smile a little. “You’re talking about Dante, aren’t you?” 

“Maybe.” Her lips curve into a secretive grin, and I can see the love in her eyes for him, it’s almost unreal how visible it is. “I’m saying… don’t let anyone take away your control, okay? You can love someone, be drawn to them, even fight with them — but you still have to belong to yourself.”

Her words sink in deeper than I want them to.

Because with Aiden… I don’t know if I still belong to myself.

By ten, Mom and Dad go to bed, after reminding me to take my medicine and Layla to ‘Sleep before two am for once.’

Layla and I stay in my room. It feels like old times, music playing softly from my speaker, fairy lights glowing around the mirror, the faint hum of the heater filling the silence. She’s lying on her stomach on my bed, scrolling through photos on her phone while I sit by the window with my sketchbook. 

“You still draw?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” I say, shading the edge of a flower petal. “It helps me calm down.” 

She glances up. “You’ve gotten better. That looks real.” 

“Thanks.” 

She stares at me for a moment longer, then smirks. “Does he know you draw?”

I give her a blank look. “Who?” 

“You know who.” 

I shake my head. “He doesn’t. And I’m not planning on telling him.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because he’d ruin it,” I say, a little too fast. “He ruins everything.”

Layla blinks, surprised by my tone. “Wow. That was… honest.” 

I shrug. “It’s true.”

But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel that familiar tug in my chest — the contradiction I can’t seem to escape. He ruins everything, but he also makes everything feel alive.

The way he looks at me, too intensely, too possessively, it scares me and draws me in all at once. I get caught up in it, even if I pretend not to. 

Layla changes the topic after that, talking about New York again, about how the city never sleeps, how she once saw snow at three a.m. from her apartment window, and how she misses Dante already and wants to punch him. I listen quietly, half here, half somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere with dark eyes and a voice that knows how to find the softest part of me.

Around eleven, Layla starts dozing off. I tuck her under the blanket, smiling as she mumbles something incoherent about “coffee pigeons.”

When the room goes quiet, I pull my phone out again.

There are three unread messages.

Satan: I saw the light in your room.
Satan: You shouldn’t leave your curtains open.
Satan: You look better in turtlenecks than I thought.

My heart stops.

I stare at the screen, then at the window, the same one I’d been sitting next to earlier. The curtains are drawn now, but just the thought that he could’ve been watching before…

I type fast. 

Me: You’re insane. 

Satan: For you, yeah.

I swallow hard, locking the phone. I shouldn’t reply. I shouldn’t feel the way I do right now — half frightened, half… thrilled.

I go to my desk, turning on my lamp. The yellow light softens the shadows around the room, but it doesn’t make the unease go away.

It’s quiet outside. Too quiet.

Even the trees seem still.

I push the curtain aside an inch and peek through the window. The streetlights paint the driveway in a dull orange glow, the car reflecting faintly under it. Everything looks normal.

But then, I noticed something.

Across the street, under the tall oak tree, there’s a figure. 

Tall. Broad. Dark hoodie, motionless.

My stomach twists.

No, it’s probably just someone walking by. A neighbor. Or maybe a shadow.

Except… he doesn’t move.

He’s just standing there.

Watching.

I let go of the curtain immediately and took a shaky breath. My mind’s probably overreacting, I mean, he said he was “close by” earlier, but that doesn’t mean he would actually—

The phone vibrates again.

Satan: Go to sleep, baby. You’ve had a long day.

My hands tighten around the phone. How does he always know what I’m doing?

I don’t reply this time. I put the phone face-down, crawl into bed, and pull the blanket over myself.

Layla’s soft breathing from beside me helps, a little. It reminds me that I’m safe. That I’m home.

But even as I close my eyes, my mind drifts — back to the way he said my name earlier at school, to the way his touch lingered too long, to the way his eyes always find me before I even notice him there.

I hate that he’s clouding my mind, interrupting my thoughts, but it won’t be for long.

My life will not revolve around some guy, especially not a Reeve. 

-------------

The clock ticks past midnight.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. 

When it did, it resulted in a nightmare. Again. 

I toss and turn, replaying the entire day in my head. The bathroom incident. His stupid confidence. The mark on my neck.

Every time I think I’m finally drifting off, another memory surfaces.

The look in his eyes when I told him no, the way his jaw tightened but he still pulled away. That rare, restrained control.

He’s dangerous, but he’s not careless. That’s what makes it worse.

I sit up, quietly, careful not to wake Layla. My throat’s dry, so I slip out of bed, tiptoeing downstairs for a glass of water.

The house is dark, except for the faint glow of the nightlight in the hallway. The air feels heavier at night, quieter, like the house itself is holding its breath.

I pour water from the jug, my hand trembling just a little.

And then I hear it.

A soft sound, not inside, but outside. A faint scrape.

Like footsteps on gravel.

I freeze. The glass almost slips from my hand.

I set it down slowly and walk toward the window over the sink. The curtains are half open, and through the tiny space, I see the same tree across the street.

The figure’s gone.

My chest tightens.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was all in my head. 

I tell myself that as I go back upstairs, holding my breath until I close the bedroom door again.

Layla’s still asleep, her face peaceful.

I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling.

My phone buzzes one more time.

Satan: Sweet dreams, angel.

I don’t answer. I just turn it off completely and tuck it under my pillow, like that could somehow block him out.

But it doesn’t.

Because even when I finally fall asleep, he’s still there, somewhere in the dark corners of my mind, watching, waiting, always close enough to touch but far enough to make me ache.

The next morning, sunlight floods the room. I blink awake, momentarily disoriented, until I see Layla sprawled next to me, hair everywhere, one arm hanging off the bed.

She looks peaceful, and for a brief second, everything feels normal again.

I grab my phone, no new messages.

But when I glance toward the window, something catches my eye.

There, at the bottom corner of the glass, pressed faintly against it, is a single black rose petal.

I don’t know how it got there.

But I know who it’s from.

And I know what it means.

He was here.

******

To Be Continued.

I know this is late, but I had tons of assignments to do😔 I’ll try my best to update more! Enjoy!😛