It started with the dream.
Aaria jolted upright in her tiny apartment bed, drenched in cold sweat, the echo of a child's scream still ringing in her ears. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes wide and unfocused.
The hallway. The locked door. The smell of alcohol and ash. That same voice whispering, "No one will believe you."
She clutched the pendant around her neck—an old silver locket that hadn't opened in years. It was the only thing she had from that night, the only thing they hadn't taken from her.
But the nightmares were back now.
And worse—they were merging with her reality.
The next morning, Aaria moved through the halls of Viera Industries like a ghost. Coffee in hand, mind in ruins. Her attention frayed. Her posture tense.
She hadn't noticed the CCTV camera pivot slightly when she entered the building. Hadn't noticed the man in the penthouse office already watching her walk in—like he had every day since she arrived.
Rafael Viera sat at his custom-built desk, a tablet in hand, scrolling through pages of a file that shouldn't exist. Her file.
Her foster history. Her guardians. The sealed report from the social services department. The police statement that was later withdrawn. Every shredded document—stitched back together by the quiet efficiency of money and control.
She had been just eight years old.
He read it in silence, jaw tight, one hand curled into a fist.
No one had protected her.
No one had paid for it.
And now—he would never let her be vulnerable again.
Later that day, he found her in the records room, digging through files with a look on her face like she was trying to stay sane.
She didn't notice him at first. Not until he spoke.
"You didn't sleep last night."
Aaria turned sharply. "Excuse me?"
"Your eyes," he said. "They look like you fought with your own mind all night."
"Maybe I did," she snapped, suddenly defensive. "But I didn't invite you into it."
He stepped closer, closing the door behind him with a soft click that made the air thicken.
"Your guard is impressive," he murmured. "But not impenetrable."
"You know nothing about me."
Rafael leaned against the filing cabinet, his voice calm, controlled. "I know you don't trust anyone. I know your smile is a weapon, not an expression. I know you use sarcasm like armor, and silence like a sword."
Her breath caught.
"And I know," he said softly, "that you scream in your sleep."
That was the breaking point.
"You had me followed?" she whispered, voice trembling with a rage laced in fear.
"Not followed," Rafael said. "Protected."
"From what?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he took a step toward her, hand brushing against the metal drawer near her hip.
"I see you, Aaria. I see all of you. Not the perfect intern. Not the sharp tongue or the cold eyes. I see the girl who doesn't believe in love because no one ever taught her it was supposed to feel safe."
His words were gentle. Dangerous.
"And that girl… belongs with someone who will destroy anything that ever made her afraid."
Silence fell between them.
She hated him. She hated how much he knew. Hated that he had peeled back her skin without her permission.
But more than anything—she hated the way her knees felt weak.
The way her heart pounded at the thought of someone wanting to fight her demons for her… even if that someone was worse than the demons themselves.