The Royce estate felt like a mausoleum when I walked back through its doors—grand, pristine, but suffocating under the weight of ghosts. Not the kind buried six feet under, but the kind who still breathed, still whispered, still betrayed.
I ascended the staircase, the velvet runner muffling each step. Everything looked identical to how I had left it. Gleaming. Untouched. Perfect. Except me.
Then I passed his room—Leander’s.
A sound drifted out. A low exhale. A strained moan. A name.
Dahlia.
I should have kept moving. Should have let that sound rot unacknowledged. But I didn’t.
The door was slightly open. I glanced inside.
Leander sat hunched on the edge of his bed, his shirt unbuttoned, sweat glistening along his chest, dark tattoos stretched like shadows across muscle. One hand clutched a photo. The other moved with a desperate rhythm between his thighs.
“Dahlia… damn, baby… so tight…”
The words ripped me open.
The photograph was hers.
I had been sleeping with him in this very house, in my bed, in the hours where duty was supposed to bind him to me. I remembered how his hands shook with hunger, how my name spilled from his mouth like a drowning man gasping for air.
But now?
Now it was her name spilling from his lips, her name he was losing himself to, as though I had never been more than a substitute.
My mouth turned sand-dry. My heartbeat froze to ice.
Then his burner phone buzzed.
He picked up instantly, still panting, knuckles pressed white into the mattress.
“What?”
The voice on the line was male, smug, taunting. “Man, you still playing watchdog for the Royce brat? The heir of a billionaire stuck babysitting a bargain-bin heiress—just because you’re obsessed with Dahlia? You’re pathetic.”
Leander let out a laugh, low and reverent. “She was my first. My only. She needed protection, not pressure. I’d wait forever if it kept her safe.”
“And Raven?” the voice mocked.
His laugh this time was softer, sharper. “Raven was just flesh. Warmth. Something to sink into when I needed release. She was never love. She never could be.”
I didn’t hear the rest. I couldn’t.
My veins went quiet. My vision shrank to a single point.
I slammed the door wide open.
He jerked his head up, startled. And for the first time in years, his eyes met mine bare, unmasked. Pure shock.
I was frozen steel. Sharpened and merciless.
“Don’t pause because of me,” I said, every syllable soaked in venom. “Wouldn’t dream of spoiling your devotion.”
For a moment—just a flicker—his gaze burned with hunger when it locked onto me. Then it was gone, buried deep. He tucked the photo beneath the silk pillow, zipped himself back together like this ritual had been repeated too many times to count.
Typical.
He didn’t scramble. Didn’t stutter. Just leaned lazily against the headboard, as though I hadn’t caught him at his most pathetic.
I crossed my arms, leaning against the frame. “What, no encore? Or are you saving the climax for later? You always did savor pain, Leander.”
He didn’t even blink. Just adjusted the gloves on his hands, eyes fixed ahead, deliberately ignoring me. “What do you want, Raven?”
Raven. The name fell like ash. Funny how he could spit it so easily when every part of him was still owned by her.
“I’m racing tonight,” I said flatly. “You’re coming with me.”
One brow rose. “I thought I was off duty.”
I didn’t glance his way. Just leaned further, voice colder than marble. “Dahlia’s in the race.”
That shut him up.
He went still—one beat, then another—before replying. “Got it.”
Of course. The moment her name surfaced, he snapped back to attention like a trained dog. I wasn’t surprised. Let him chase her. Let him keep crawling after her shadow. I’d give him the stage for his obsession—and then I’d watch it collapse.
---
By the time we rolled into the underground garage, Leander was already out of the car. He looked like something pulled from glossy pages—sharp suit, sleek lines, every inch of him polished. He didn’t belong in a place crawling with gamblers and grease.
I stepped out slower, heels striking concrete like gunfire. The silence between us was thick, heavy with all the words unsaid.
The crowd was alive with tension when we arrived. These races weren’t places you wandered into—they were invitations only, secret codes whispered between dangerous men. Buried beneath the Mirage Hotel, the venue glowed with neon, velvet walls, and chrome that reflected dirty money back in polished lies.
And then I saw her.
Dahlia.
Her laugh split the air, shrill and sweet, scraping against me like broken glass.
I froze. Just half a second. Leander didn’t. He already had his eyes locked onto her—on the blonde draped in ivory silk, her hair tumbling like she carried her own team of stylists in her shadow. He wasn’t Leander the bodyguard anymore. He was Leander the fool, Leander the moth circling flame.
She spotted me too. And strutted over like we were still family. “Sister! Didn’t think I’d run into you here!”
I didn’t flinch. “Don’t touch me.”
Her pout was flawless, practiced, the kind that might melt anyone else. “Leander, I only wanted to talk to her. She’s been distant.”
Leander didn’t spare me a glance.
“I heard you added an extra lap when I was hurt, Leander,” she purred, slipping her hand onto his arm. “That was so sweet of you. I really do like you.”
I nearly laughed out loud. That night, he’d been bloody and staggering, barely upright. But sure, call it sweet.
“I owe you dinner,” she added, dripping sugar.
And he didn’t refuse. “Fine.”
“You won’t mind, will you, Raven?” she said, feigning innocence. “Oh, you look pale, dear. Are you all right?”
I gave her a smile honed sharper than any blade. “You’re not my sister. You’re the mistress’s leftover project with a borrowed face. Remember your place.”
