Selene POV
You walked in like a sin I'd gladly commit twice."
My phone lit up under the table. Same number. No name.
A chill slid down my spine.
I glanced across the candlelit table. Zade was talking, smiling, laughing softly like he had rehearsed it. He was halfway through a story about Milan, some press event next week. His voice was smooth, polished. Everything about him was.
To everyone else in that room, he was a dream. The Music god. Effortlessly charming, spotless reputation, headlines that read like love songs. To me, that night, he was background noise.
Because someone was watching me. I could feel it. Not the kind of watching that came with fame, not the usual stares from curious fans or photographers lurking near exits. No. This was different. This was cold, calculated. Intimate.
I shifted in my seat and pretended to adjust my bracelet. My eyes flicked discreetly across the restaurant.
The space was beautiful—marble floors, dim lighting, soft jazz trickling from invisible speakers. Elegant, but suddenly claustrophobic. Every movement felt magnified, every whisper aimed at me.
Zade lifted his wine glass. "Selene, did you hear what I said?"
I blinked. Forced a smile. "Uhh, sorry...Long day."
He chuckled, brushing it off. "You've been off all night. You okay?"
I nodded. "Just tired."
He reached across the table, his hand brushing mine briefly. "Once this dinner's done, you should get away for a bit. Maybe Paris. Clear your head."
I nodded again. Smiled. It was what I was good at—looking like I belonged somewhere I didn't.
Under the table, I unlocked my phone. The message was still there, glowing like a secret I shouldn't have known.
"You walked in like a sin I'd gladly commit twice."
My stomach twisted. It wasn't the first message. It wouldn't be the last.
Six months.
That was how long it had been since the first one came. One line, once a week, sometimes more. Always vague. Always intimate. Always from the same unknown number.
Always him.
I never responded. I never talked about it. Not to Liam, not to Mira, not even to myself if I could help it. But I couldn't stop reading them. I couldn't stop waiting for the next one.
And I couldn't explain why.
The messages weren't threatening. They were…obsessive. Poetic. Like whoever was behind them knew me in a way that shouldn't have been possible. Knew how to get under my skin.
I studied the message again. The words curled around me like smoke.
My fingers trembled slightly as I put the phone face-down on my thigh. I swallowed, glanced up. An old man near the bar was reading a newspaper. No camera. No phone in sight. But the hair on my arms prickled anyway.
Six months of this shadow that lingered just out of reach. A presence I couldn't trace, but always felt.
I picked at my napkin, my appetite long gone. The pasta sat untouched. Zade ordered dessert, but I barely heard him.
My pulse kicked harder in my throat when the waiter passed behind me. I flinched.
Calm down.
I pressed my knees together under the table, anchoring myself. It was just a message. Just a feeling. I was being dramatic.
But then again…
When you didn't know who you were, you couldn't afford to ignore the signs.
My life started at eighteen. Waking up in a hospital, skin bandaged, name unknown. A house fire, Mira's father said. Said I was lucky to be alive. That no one else was.
He never gave me answers—just kindness. Just a place to heal. He said he owed it to my father. That they were friends once. That I was better off not remembering.
Selene. That was the name I woke up with. It was on a hospital form. No birth certificate. No ID. No history.
I had worn it ever since.
In three years, I built a life. Career. Spotlight. Labels. Lights. Cameras. A dream girl for the world to look at and love.
But there was a part of me that was still on fire. Still reaching for something lost in the smoke.
Zade brushed a strand of hair from my face. His touch was gentle. Practiced.
"You sure you're okay?"
I nodded again. "Yeah."
He said something about us being overexposed lately, about the cameras being ruthless, and I nodded like I cared.
"I'll be right back," I said, setting down my glass. "Just need to clean up a bit."
"Want me to come with?" he offered, playful, but his voice barely rose above the hum of the restaurant.
I gave him a look. "Pretty sure I can handle lip gloss and a mirror on my own."
He laughed, leaned back, let it go. I stood, smoothed the dress over my hips, and walked toward the hallway without looking back.
The restroom was quiet. Dimly lit, sleek in that cold, expensive way—marble sinks, gold fixtures, a mirror too perfect to trust. I stood still for a second, staring at my reflection like she might blink first.
I reapplied my gloss. Fixed my hair. Tried to stop my fingers from shaking.
Behind me, a stall door creaked.
I froze.
But no one came out.
Just pipes groaning. Water dripping.
Still, it made my pulse trip.
I checked my phone. No new message. Not yet. But I knew it was coming. I felt it in my teeth.
I tossed the gloss back in my clutch, took one last look at the mirror, and left.
When I returned, Zade was just ending a call.
"Everything okay?" he asked, adjusting the cuff of his jacket.
"Yeah. Just needed a second," I smiled.
He reached across the table, his hand brushing mine briefly. "We should probably call it a night. You've got that early shoot, right?"
"Yeah," I replied, grateful for the excuse.
The plates were cleared. The wine was half-finished. The air felt heavier now, like the moment had stretched too long.
By the time we stepped outside, the car was already waiting. A black sedan, sleek, with tinted windows.
Zade opened the door like the gentleman he was. We started moving. The driver didn't speak. The whole car was silent—exactly how I liked it.
I stared outside through the window. The city was a blur of golden lights and rushing headlights. Neon signs blinked, people moved like shadows, laughter and horns rising and falling like waves. But in there, it was still. Contained. Safe.
Twenty minutes later, we got to my apartment.
Zade walked me to the door. Cameras flashed from across the street. We smiled.
One of the biggest disadvantages of being famous was that the whole world wanted to know about you.
He leaned in to kiss my cheek. I let him. There were photographers outside. I knew there always were.
I smiled and waved at him, then walked into my peach-themed apartment.
"Peace," I muttered.
Inside, the silence swallowed me whole. I slipped off my heels, dropped the dress to the floor, and stood barefoot.
"Ding."
My phone lit up.
One new message.
Unknown number.
A picture of Zade holding me close at my apartment door. The angle was close. Too close.
Timestamp: three minutes ago.