Clementine, a social media manager with fiery red hair and emerald green eyes, was a contradiction. Shy in person, her mind buzzed with fascinating trivia just waiting for the right listener.
Sebastian Montgomery as the tabloids dubbed him, was an...
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Clementine barely slept.
The weight of the previous night clung to her like a fever, burning in places she didn't know could still ache. The moment her eyes fluttered open, reality crashed into her.
What have I done?
Her studio apartment was still dark, save for the dim streetlight spilling through the curtains. The sheets were tangled between her legs, the evidence of her restless, desperate night still fresh in her mind. Heat crawled up her skin as flashes of it returned—her hands exploring, her breath shallow, the unbearable need that had overwhelmed her.
It wasn't the act itself that left her feeling raw. It was who had occupied her mind when she did it. Sebastian.
She had conjured him with a clarity that terrified her—his broad frame towering over her, his dark eyes heavy with something she couldn't name, the slow way his fingers curled when he was thinking. The rich, commanding tone of his voice, the way he looked at her as if he was already inside her mind, unraveling her.
Clementine squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her face into the pillow. God, I'm sick.
But she wasn't. That was the worst part. There was nothing sick about it—only desire, sharp and humiliating in its intensity.
She forced herself up, peeling the sheets away as if shaking off the night before. She needed to get to work. Needed to be normal. Needed to forget this ever happened.
But as she stood under the shower, hot water cascading over her, she realized—she couldn't. Not when she was about to face him. .....
The office felt different.
Clementine stepped inside, clutching her bag like a lifeline, willing her pulse to settle. The air-conditioning chilled her skin, but it wasn't the cold that made her shiver. It was the weight of last night, the shameful memories of what she'd done alone in the dark, of how she had whispered his name into the silence of her studio apartment.
She had barely slept, her mind plagued with fragmented images—his hands, his voice, the way his gaze had settled on her with that unreadable intensity. And now she had to face him.
Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor as she made her way to her desk. The open-plan office buzzed with quiet conversations, the hum of keyboards filling the space, but none of it grounded her. Not when she could feel his presence somewhere beyond the frosted glass of his office, a predator lurking behind closed doors.
She sat down, inhaled deeply, and forced herself to focus on the screen in front of her. But it was useless.
Because she could feel him.
She didn't dare look up, didn't dare confirm if he was watching her. But she knew. She felt the weight of his gaze like a brand against her skin, a silent acknowledgment that last night had changed something.
