The morning sun filtered through sheer curtains, laying streaks of gold across the pristine room. Isabella stirred beneath the covers, her limbs tangled in the sheets, her body still humming with the memory of the night before. She blinked slowly, the sleep still heavy in her lashes, her body sore in places that reminded her just how close she and Azrael had become.
His side of the bed was empty.
She sat up and pulled the sheet tighter around her chest, her eyes scanning the quiet space. The silence wasn't uncomfortable—it was cold, still, like the pause before a storm. Her heart twisted as her fingers ran along the space where he had lain hours ago, still warm. It wasn't unusual for him to disappear before she woke up. Azrael was never the type to linger, and if he felt anything after the night they shared, he didn't say it. He never did.
She slipped out of bed, careful not to make a sound, and padded softly through the penthouse apartment. The morning air was cool against her skin as she stepped into the living room. He was there—shirtless, seated on one of the leather couches, legs spread, his elbows resting on his knees, a black mug in one hand, his phone in the other. His eyes flicked toward her briefly, then back to his screen.
"Good morning," she said, her voice light.
He didn't respond immediately. Just took a slow sip of his coffee.
Then, without looking at her, he muttered, "You're up."
She wrapped his robe around herself. The silence between them stretched. He wasn't ignoring her, not exactly—he just never made space for softness. Not even after last night. He had touched her like he owned her. Taken her like she was the only thing in the world worth his attention. And now, he barely glanced her way.
"You left early," she said, walking toward the kitchen.
"I had things to do," he replied simply.
That was Azrael. He never gave explanations. Just statements. Cold, clipped. His eyes didn't reveal much. Even when he looked at her now—finally lifting his gaze—it was unreadable. Detached.
Still, she sat beside him on the couch, her legs folded under her, the hem of his robe brushing her thighs. She reached for the remote.
"Let's go out today," he said suddenly.
Her hand paused mid-air.
She turned to look at him, surprised. "Out?"
His eyes remained fixed on his phone. "You need new clothes."
She blinked. "Is that your way of asking me on a date?"
"No," he said flatly. "You just need clothes."
She didn't argue. She knew better. With Azrael, everything came out cold, no matter the intention. If she read too much into it, she'd only end up hurting herself.
—
The mall was one of the biggest in the city. Crowded, loud, and full of expensive stores that sparkled with luxury. Isabella felt out of place the moment they stepped inside. But Azrael walked like he owned the building—hands in his pockets, his face unreadable behind dark sunglasses, his expression cool and unbothered.
Heads turned.
People whispered.
She heard them before she saw them. Girls in tight jeans, women in heels, even older men—they all glanced at him, lips parting, eyes widening. Some took pictures. Others just stared.
Azrael didn't notice.
Or maybe he did.
He just didn't care.
They entered one of the boutiques. The kind with no price tags and glass displays that screamed money. The staff immediately straightened. The manager rushed over, almost tripping in her heels, her smile plastered and fake.
"Mr. Virellius," she greeted. "Welcome. It's an honor."
Azrael gave a slight nod. Nothing more.
Isabella looked at him in confusion, since when did his name change from Azrael to Virellius?" She was about to ask but he spoke
"I don't let people know or call me Azrael, just you and my father, I do fake names at times" he said in a flat tone, as if he could read her mind
Isabella tilt her head, she never expected him to explain, that was odd.
Isabella stood awkwardly beside him, her fingers playing with the edge of her sleeve. The manager's eyes shifted toward her briefly, then back to Azrael. "And… she's with you?"
"She needs clothes," Azrael said. "Handle it."
The woman smiled again, but Isabella saw the flicker of judgment in her eyes. She knew she didn't look like she belonged. Her sandals were plain, her dress soft and too simple for a place like this. But before she could say a word, Azrael turned to her.
"Pick anything."
She looked at him. "Anything?"
He didn't answer. Just took out a black card from his wallet and handed it to the manager.
Then he turned and walked out.
Just like that.
No instructions. No goodbye. No interest.
He left her alone.
—
She spent over an hour trying on outfits. The sales attendants hovered, commenting on what "fit her body shape" or what "might impress a man like him." She ignored most of them, choosing things that made her feel comfortable. A pale pink dress. A cream blouse. A few jeans.
When she stepped outside, shopping bags in both hands, she saw him standing near the glass railing, staring out at the street below. He didn't turn when she approached.
"I'm done," she said quietly.
He glanced at her, then took the bags from her hands without a word.
They began walking through the mall together. For once, Isabella noticed how their reflection looked in the glass windows. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his face set like stone, walking beside her like she was part of the furniture. But people didn't see it that way. People saw the closeness. The way he walked beside her instead of ahead of her. The way their hands brushed sometimes, even if he didn't hold hers.
Photos were being taken.
She saw the flashes. The girls whispering behind their phones. The boys eyeing Azrael with a mixture of awe and envy.
"That's him. That's the guy from the Virellius estate."
"Who's the girl?"
"Are they dating?"
"She's lucky. Or cursed. I don't know."
They walked past the food court, and that's when it happened.
Three girls sitting at a round table. All dressed in heavy makeup, designer clothes, and too much perfume. The moment they saw Azrael, they straightened.
One of them laughed loudly. "Oh my God, that's him."
The second one leaned closer. "Is that really his girl? Are we being punked?"
The third one scoffed, not even hiding her voice. "She looks basic as hell."
Isabella heard it.
She swallowed, keeping her eyes forward.
But Azrael stopped.
He turned around slowly, like a shadow shifting.
The girls froze.
He said nothing. Didn't speak. Didn't glare. He just stared at them, and it was enough to silence the whole table.
After a few seconds, he turned back to Isabella.
"Let's go."
She followed him, her breath shallow. Her heart was racing, not from fear, but from how easily he shut everything down—without lifting a finger. Without a single word.
—
The drive back was quiet.
He didn't ask if she was okay.
She didn't ask what that was about.
When they got home, he dropped the bags in the corner and disappeared into his study.
She sat alone on the couch, arms wrapped around herself.
He wasn't gentle. He wasn't warm. But he had defended her in his own way. With his presence. With that cold silence that made people back off.
Later that night, when she passed by his room, the door was half open. He was seated by the window, reading something. A drink in his hand.
She leaned on the doorframe.
"Azrael?"
He didn't look up.
"Yes?"
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
She hesitated. "For earlier."
He looked up then. His face unreadable. "I didn't do it for you."
Her throat tightened. "I know."
"Good."
She nodded and turned to leave.
But before she stepped out, he said, "Get some sleep."
His voice was flat.
But something in it made her chest ache.
He was heartless. He was distant. He didn't care—he had made that clear.
But something was changing.
And it terrified her.
Because she didn't know whether she was falling for a man who was learning to feel…
…or a man who would never feel anything at all.