Updated Oct 22, 2025 • ~15 min read
Emma couldn’t sleep.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything. The video of Isobel’s fall. The threatening text from Lucas. Mrs. Vance’s cryptic letter and sudden disappearance. And Alexander—the way he’d held her, promised to protect her, looked at her like she was his salvation.
She was in so far over her head she couldn’t see the surface anymore.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. 2:47 AM.
Are you awake? -A
Emma stared at the message. She should ignore it. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember that this man had cameras hidden in his dead wife’s room, a shrine in his basement, and an obsession that had possibly killed once before.
Yes, she typed back.
Can’t sleep either. Too many ghosts.
Emma’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. Literal or metaphorical?
Both. Meet me in the garden? I need to show you something.
This was a terrible idea. Meeting her possibly-unstable boss in a dark garden at 3 AM after receiving death threats. Emma could practically hear her mother’s voice: This is how women end up on true crime podcasts.
She got out of bed anyway.
She threw on jeans and a sweater, grabbed her phone, and made sure to text her location to her best friend Maya with a simple message: If you don’t hear from me by 8 AM, call the police.
The house was different at night. The portraits of Isobel seemed to watch Emma with knowing eyes as she descended the stairs. Shadows moved in corners where no shadows should be. The whole place felt alive, breathing, waiting.
Alexander stood by the French doors leading to the garden, dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt. He looked younger like this, less put together. More human.
“You came,” he said softly.
“Against my better judgment.”
A ghost of a smile. “Those are often the best decisions.” He opened the door. “Come on. I want to show you where she’s buried.”
Of all the things Emma had expected him to say, that wasn’t it.
They walked through the garden in silence. The air was cold, crisp, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine. Above them, stars pierced the darkness like bullet holes in black fabric.
Alexander led her to a section of the garden Emma hadn’t explored yet. Here, the carefully manicured perfection gave way to something wilder. A small grove of trees, and beneath them, a simple marble stone.
Isobel Grace Ashford Beloved Wife, Brilliant Artist, Free Spirit May she finally have the freedom she sought
Emma read the inscription twice. “That’s not what most widowers would write.”
“Most widowers don’t kill their wives with love.” Alexander knelt beside the grave, his hand touching the cold marble. “I chose those words six months after she died. When I’d finally accepted what I’d done to her. Not murder—nothing so clean. Just a slow suffocation disguised as devotion.”
Emma sat beside him on the grass, not caring about the cold or the dew. “Why did you bring me here?”
“Because I need you to understand something.” He turned to face her, and in the moonlight, his eyes were infinite. “I loved Isobel. Truly, deeply, obsessively loved her. And that love destroyed her. I don’t want to make the same mistake with you.”
“Alexander—”
“Let me finish.” His voice was rough. “Since you walked into my office, I’ve felt alive for the first time in three years. When I look at you, I don’t just see Isobel—I see possibility. Hope. A second chance I probably don’t deserve.” He reached out, his fingers ghosting over her cheek. “But I’m terrified that history will repeat itself. That I’ll hold on too tight and watch you break.”
Emma’s heart hammered. She should lean away from his touch. Should remind him about boundaries, about the one month agreement, about the fact that his last relationship ended in death.
Instead, she found herself leaning closer.
“What if I’m not as fragile as you think?” she whispered.
“What if you’re not as strong as you think?” His thumb traced her bottom lip. “Isobel was a force of nature. Wild, brilliant, uncontainable. But I contained her anyway. Slowly, methodically, until there was nothing left but a desperate need to escape.”
“I’m not Isobel.”
“No.” His hand cupped her face fully now. “You’re Emma. Smart, cautious, guarded. You’ve built walls around yourself so high I can see them from here. But Emma…” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her face. “I want to climb those walls. I want to know what you’re protecting. I want to break through every defense you’ve built and find out who you really are.”
“That sounds like the same obsession that killed your wife.”
“I know.” The admission was stark. “That’s why I’m telling you now, here, in front of her grave. So you can run. So you can leave before I do to you what I did to her.”
Emma looked at Isobel’s headstone, then back at Alexander. At the raw honesty in his face. The self-awareness that was somehow more dangerous than delusion.
“What if I don’t want to run?”
Alexander’s breath caught. “Then you’re either very brave or very foolish.”
“Maybe both.” Emma’s hand came up to cover his where it still cupped her face. “Maybe I’m tired of being careful. Tired of building walls. Tired of protecting myself from life.”
“Emma—”
“Maybe,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, “I want someone to see me. Really see me. The way you saw Isobel. Even if it’s dangerous. Even if it ends badly.”
“It will end badly,” Alexander said, but he was moving closer. “I’ll hurt you. Maybe not intentionally, but I will. It’s what I do.”
“Then hurt me.” Emma closed the distance between them. “But don’t lie to me. Don’t manipulate me. Don’t treat me like I’m fragile. If you’re going to love me like you loved her, at least give me the respect of being honest about what that means.”
“You’re insane,” Alexander breathed.
“Probably.” Emma’s lips were inches from his. “But I’m also here, at 3 AM, sitting on your dead wife’s grave, asking you to not push me away.”
For a long moment, Alexander just stared at her. Emma could see the war in his eyes—desire fighting caution, need fighting guilt, hope fighting the certainty that he’d destroy this too.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn’t soft or gentle or tentative. It was desperate and consuming, like he was drowning and she was air. His hand tangled in her hair, the other pulling her closer, and Emma felt herself falling into it. Into him. Into the beautiful, terrible mistake she was choosing to make.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Alexander pressed his forehead to hers.
“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“You should leave. Right now. Tonight. I’ll pay you everything I promised. You can—”
Emma kissed him again, cutting off his words. When she pulled back, she looked him straight in the eyes.
“I’m staying. Not because I need the money. Not because I feel sorry for you. Not because you remind me of something I’m missing.” She took his face in both her hands. “I’m staying because I want to see what happens when someone refuses to let you push them away. When someone looks at your worst parts and doesn’t run.”
“Emma, you don’t understand what you’re—”
“I do.” She stood, pulling him up with her. “I read Isobel’s journal. I watched the tape. I know what you’re capable of. And I’m still here.”
They walked back to the house in charged silence, hands linked, both knowing they’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.
At Emma’s bedroom door, Alexander stopped.
“I should let you sleep,” he said, but his hand didn’t release hers.
“You should.”
“I won’t watch you. I promise. No cameras, no lurking in hallways, no—”
“Alexander.” Emma smiled. “If you want to watch me sleep, just ask.”
His eyes darkened. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Why not?” Emma leaned against her doorframe, feeling bold in a way she’d never felt before. “You watched Isobel. You have hours of tapes of her sleeping, living, existing. Why pretend you’re not that person anymore?”
“Because I’m trying to be better.”
“What if I don’t want better?” Emma’s voice dropped. “What if I want honest? What if I want to know the real Alexander Ashford, obsession and all?”
She could see the internal struggle in his face. The temptation. The guilt. The desperate desire to take what she was offering.
“You’re playing with fire,” he said roughly.
“Then let me burn.”
Alexander’s control snapped. He crowded her against the door, one hand braced beside her head, the other still tangled with hers.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he breathed against her neck.
“So show me.”
For a moment, Emma thought he would. Thought he’d push open the door and follow her inside and show her exactly what kind of man he really was. She could feel the tension in his body, the barely restrained need.
Then he stepped back.
“Not tonight.” His voice was strained. “Not like this. Not until you’ve had time to think about what you’re getting into.”
Emma felt a strange mix of disappointment and respect. “You’re being noble.”
“I’m being smart. Because if I follow you into that room right now, I won’t want to leave. And you deserve better than a man who can’t control himself around you.”
“What if control is overrated?”
Alexander laughed, the sound pained. “You’re killing me.”
“Good.” Emma squeezed his hand once, then released it. “Maybe we can kill each other slowly. Make it last.”
She slipped into her room and closed the door, leaning against it, heart racing. On the other side, she could hear Alexander’s breathing. Could picture him standing there, warring with himself.
“Emma?” His voice was muffled through the door.
“Yes?”
“Leave your curtains open tonight.”
Emma’s breath caught. “Why?”
“Because I have a telescope in my room. And because you told me to be honest about who I am.”
He was giving her a choice. Warning her. Telling her exactly what kind of relationship this would be if she let it continue.
Emma walked to her windows and deliberately, slowly, pulled the curtains wide open.
From across the courtyard, she could see Alexander’s room. See him standing at his own window, watching her.
She waved.
He raised his hand in return.
Then Emma got ready for bed, hyper-aware of being watched. She brushed her teeth, changed into sleep clothes, went through her normal routine. But every movement felt different. Charged. Intimate.
When she finally slipped under the covers, she looked across the courtyard one more time.
Alexander was still there. Still watching.
Emma closed her eyes and, for the first time in years, felt seen.
She woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee.
For a moment, Emma forgot where she was. Then memory crashed back—the garden, the kiss, the invitation to be watched. She sat up quickly, heat flooding her face.
What had she done?
There was a note on her nightstand, in Alexander’s elegant handwriting:
Good morning. You’re beautiful when you sleep. Almost as beautiful as when you’re awake and challenging me to be honest. Breakfast is at 8. We need to discuss Lucas. -A
Emma checked her phone. 7:30 AM. Fifteen texts from Maya:
GIRL
GIRL WHAT
Are you alive
Should I call the police
EMMA MARIE CHEN
I swear if you’re dead I’m going to kill you
Oh wait you texted me at 8:01. Never mind.
But seriously WHAT IS HAPPENING
Are you sleeping with the creepy billionaire
Because the vibe I’m getting from your cryptic 3am texts is “sleeping with the creepy billionaire”
Call me immediately
I mean it
IMMEDIATELY
Fine ignore me but I’m coming over there if you don’t respond by noon
I love you please don’t die
Emma smiled and typed back: I’m alive. It’s complicated. I’ll explain later. Maybe. If I can explain it to myself first.
She showered quickly, trying not to think about Alexander watching her sleep. Trying not to think about how that should have creeped her out but somehow hadn’t. Trying not to think about the fact that she was actively choosing to engage in exactly the kind of obsessive relationship that had destroyed Isobel.
When she got downstairs, Alexander was in the breakfast room with his laptop, looking infuriatingly put-together in a navy sweater and dark slacks.
“Sleep well?” he asked without looking up.
“You tell me. You watched.”
Now he looked up, his expression unreadable. “You’re not angry.”
“Should I be?”
“Most people would be.”
Emma poured herself coffee and sat across from him. “I’m not most people. And you were honest about what you wanted. I said yes.”
“You said yes in the middle of the night after a highly emotional conversation. People say things at 3 AM they don’t mean in daylight.”
“Do you want me to take it back?” Emma met his eyes. “Do you want me to pretend last night didn’t happen? Tell you to stay in your lane and maintain professional boundaries?”
“Yes,” Alexander said. Then: “No.” Then: “I don’t know.”
“Well that’s honest.”
He closed his laptop. “Emma, I need you to understand something. What I feel when I look at you—it’s not healthy. It’s not normal. It’s the same consuming need I felt for Isobel. The same desire to know everything, see everything, possess everything.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Emma considered lying. Considered saying something safe and sane. Instead: “I’m not okay with it. But I’m willing to try. On two conditions.”
Alexander leaned forward. “Name them.”
“First, you keep going to therapy. Actually work on your issues, not just talk about them.”
“Done. What’s the second?”
“You give me the same access you demand. No more locked rooms. No more hidden shames. If I’m letting you into my life, you let me into yours. Completely.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened. “There are things about me you won’t like.”
“I’m counting on it.” Emma sipped her coffee. “So do we have a deal?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “You’re either the bravest woman I’ve ever met or the most self-destructive.”
“Can’t I be both?”
Despite everything, Alexander smiled. “Deal.”
They shook hands across the table, and Emma felt the same electric charge she’d felt last night. This was insane. Dangerous. Probably going to end in tears or worse.
But God help her, she wanted it anyway.
“Now,” Alexander said, his expression turning serious. “About Lucas. I did some digging last night. He’s not just Isobel’s old art dealer.”
“What do you mean?”
Alexander pulled up something on his laptop and turned it to face her. It was a background check—professional, thorough, probably illegal.
“Lucas Brennan. Age 38. No criminal record. Runs a successful gallery in Portland. But three years ago, right before Isobel died, he sold his first gallery and bought the new one. Paid cash. Half a million dollars.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “Where did he get that kind of money?”
“That’s what I want to know. Because according to his tax returns—which I may have obtained through questionable means—he was barely scraping by before that. Then suddenly he has half a million in cash?”
“You think someone paid him.”
“I think someone paid him to help Isobel disappear. To set up a new life for her somewhere. And when she died before she could use that escape route…” Alexander’s expression darkened. “He kept the money.”
Emma thought about the threatening text. Stop digging. “He doesn’t want us finding out what really happened.”
“No. Which makes me think he knows more than he’s saying.” Alexander closed the laptop. “I want to talk to him. Face to face.”
“That’s a terrible idea. He literally threatened me last night.”
“Which is why you’re coming with me. Safety in numbers. Plus, he knows you’re the one asking questions. Maybe he’ll talk to you.”
“Or maybe he’ll kill us both and bury us in his gallery.”
Alexander’s smile was sharp. “Then at least we’ll die together. Isn’t that romantic?”
“That’s not the kind of romance I signed up for.”
“Too late.” He stood, offered her his hand. “Lucas is in Portland. We can be there and back in a day. Unless you’re afraid?”
Emma looked at his outstretched hand. This was her chance. She could say no. Could demand he go to the police instead. Could refuse to be part of whatever dangerous game he was playing.
She took his hand.
“I’m terrified,” she said. “But I’m going anyway.”
Alexander pulled her close, his eyes intense. “Then let’s go find out what really happened to my wife. And what Lucas Brennan knows about it.”
As they headed out to Alexander’s car, Emma caught a glimpse of Isobel’s portrait in the foyer. For just a moment, she could have sworn the painted eyes shifted. Following them. Watching.
Be careful, they seemed to say. He destroyed me. He’ll destroy you too.
Emma looked away and followed Alexander into the morning light.
She just hoped she knew what she was doing.
Emma and Alexander are heading to Portland to confront Lucas! But what secrets is he hiding? And is Emma falling for a man who’s going to destroy her? Drop your theories and hit next for Chapter 8: Flashbacks and Hallways! 🚗💔
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