Page 59 of Lord of the Dark

"Us?" The word tasted bitter on my tongue. "This has nothing to do with 'us,' Carter. You didn't include me. You lied to me. That's the opposite of 'us.'"

He stood up, the chair leg scraped loudly across the floor. "Goddammit, of course it has something to do with us! You're part of my company. I only did all of this to protect you! You have no idea what it's like to bear this responsibility."

"You only did this for me?" You damn liar! I rose as well, my hands balling into fists. "Maybe because you never let me in,Carter! Maybe because you believe you have to do everything alone. But that's not how it works. Not when you truly trust someone."

The silence that followed was crushing. We stood facing each other, both trapped in the bitter realization of the lies and a mixture of disappointment and anger.

For a moment, I thought I saw regret in Carter's face. But then it disappeared, replaced by a mask.

"Maybe you're right," he said finally. "Maybe it doesn't work."

"That's all you have to say?" I couldn't believe it.

He didn't answer. Instead, he turned around and reached for his glass, as if wanting to end the discussion. But the rage inside me burned too fiercely to back down.

"You know, Carter," I said slowly, my voice full of sharpness, "you're not the only one who makes decisions. Maybe I should also think about what I really want."

He turned back to me slowly, and I saw something flare up in his gaze—pain, anger, maybe even fear. No idea, because as always during an argument, he said nothing more.

And in that moment, I knew something between us had shattered beyond repair.

Eighteen

Fiona Robertson

It was a golden afternoon in Miami, and the small bistro where I met Rachel was bustling with activity. The outdoor terrace was bathed in soft sunlight filtering through the palm trees, and the scent of fresh bread and herbs filled the air. The white wooden tables were lovingly decorated with small vases holding pastel-colored blooms. The aroma of sautéed garlic and herbs mingled with the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee, while the gentle clinking of silverware against porcelain underscored the lively atmosphere.

I sat at one of the small tables, staring at the menu, but my thoughts were miles away. The tension in my shoulders was ever-present, growing worse with each passing day.

Rachel appeared in a flowy summer dress that fluttered with her every energetic movement. She pushed her sunglasses into her hair and sat across from me, her eyes studying my face intently. "Hey. Wow, you look like you need to talk," she said bluntly as she opened the menu.

I wrapped my hands around my water glass and took a deep breath. "Yeah, you could say that."

A waitress came to take our orders. Rachel chose a Greek salad and homemade lemonade, while I went for a Caprese salad and a glass of rosé. The sun cast soft reflections on the glass water bottle between us as I tried to gather my thoughts.

When the drinks arrived, I started slowly. "You already know about the coffee with Alessandro. I wanted to meet him outside the office because... well, I wanted to avoid more questions.Especially after what happened in the break room last week."

Rachel raised an eyebrow and stirred her lemonade. "I get why you'd want to skip that. The guys would’ve probably grilled you again."

I nodded and reached for a piece of bread from the small wicker basket on the table. The herb-infused olive oil and hint of garlic were tempting, but I hesitated. "It’s not just that. The whole thing is... complicated, Rachel."

She leaned back and took a sip of lemonade. "Complicated because he’s not just any man. He’s Alexander Russo."

I placed the bread back on the plate and looked at her. "He's not just any man, Rachel. He's... I don't even know how to describe it. He's like a storm. Tall, powerful, overwhelming. When he enters a room, you feel it. You do too. Everyone feels it." I paused, wrestling with words I barely dared to speak.

"And?" Rachel asked quietly, her eyes curious and a trace worried.

"He already has me completely in his grasp. It's as if he controls every decision I make. I feel... consumed. And I'm afraid I'll never break free of him."

Rachel pushed her salad aside and stared at me intently. "Never again? But you've only known him a few weeks. Honestly, it sounds terrifying. You're not someone who gets backed into a corner so easily. What the hell has he done to you?"

"I don't know. It's his way. How he speaks, how he looks at me. And he knows everything about me, even the things I never wanted to reveal. And then there's the attraction..." My voice grew softer, almost a whisper. "It's not just physical, Rachel. It's like he's forcing me to be more honest with myself. He makes me do things I never thought possible. But the truly frightening part is that I enjoy doing them. Willingly. In his presence, I'm a different person."

The waitress brought our salads, and for a moment, silence settled between us. The bright red of the tomatoes on my plate formed a sharp contrast to the creamy white of the mozzarella, and I speared a piece, though my appetite had long since vanished.

Rachel took a bite of her salad, chewed thoughtfully, and finally set down her fork. "That does sound deeply concerning, Fiona. But... how does it make you feel? Does it make you happy? Or the opposite?"

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. "Both," I finally admitted. "He pushes me to my limits. Challenges me in ways no one ever has. And that’s the problem at the same time. I’m afraid I’ll lose myself in this storm."

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