Desire unleashed
Chapter Two
The night of the party refused to leave me.
It followed me into lecture halls, slipped between the pages of my textbooks, and lingered in the quiet moments when I thought my mind was finally free. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself it had been nothing—just another crowded room, another face in passing—I knew that wasn't true. Something had shifted that night, something subtle but undeniable, like a crack forming beneath calm water.
University life was meant to be my escape. A new beginning. A place where I could exist without constantly being compared to my mother. Yet even here, surrounded by glass buildings, open courtyards, and students who walked with confidence I did not yet possess, I felt strangely unsettled.
I blended in easily. Too easily.
I attended lectures, took notes, answered when called upon, and smiled politely when spoken to. People described me as pretty, approachable, soft-spoken. I knew what that really meant. I was safe. Forgettable. Nothing like Nova.
My mother made sure she remained unforgettable.
On the mornings she dropped me off, she did so like a woman stepping onto a runway rather than a university campus. Designer sunglasses, tailored coats, heels clicking sharply against the pavement. Heads turned. Conversations paused. I watched boys my age stare openly, some nearly walking into poles or benches as they followed her with their eyes.
"Do you enjoy this?" I asked once, embarrassed.
Nova smiled, lips painted perfectly. "Attention is currency, Leah. Some people are born rich."
Then she drove off, leaving me standing there with the weight of her words and the familiar tightness in my chest.
It didn't take long for history to repeat itself.
A boy from my economics class—Caleb—started sitting beside me, sharing notes, laughing at my quiet jokes. For a moment, I let myself hope. Then one afternoon, he walked me home.
Nova was in the living room.
The shift in Caleb's attention was immediate and unmistakable. His eyes lingered. His posture changed. His interest—once focused on me—drifted without resistance toward her.
By the next day, he had stopped sitting next to me.
I didn't confront him. I never did.
That night, lying in bed, my thoughts drifted back—not to Caleb, not to my mother—but to the security guard.
The man who should have blended into the background but hadn't.
He hadn't looked at Nova the way other men did. In fact, he hadn't looked at her at all. His attention had been calm, controlled, and directed at me—as though I were the anomaly, not her.
The realization unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
I saw him again at another event.
Nova insisted I attend, claiming it would be "good exposure." The venue was a modern estate just outside the city—clean lines, glass walls, private security stationed at every entrance. The kind of place where money whispered instead of shouting.
And there he was.
Dressed in black, earpiece in place, standing near the main entrance like he belonged there—yet everything about him suggested otherwise. His suit fit too perfectly. His posture was too composed. His presence felt intentional, restrained, almost royal in its quiet authority.
I looked away immediately.
If my mother noticed him, I would lose whatever fragile connection existed between us. I didn't know what I wanted from him—a conversation, an explanation, proof I hadn't imagined the pull—but I knew I didn't want Nova's attention anywhere near him.
Still, I felt it when his gaze found mine again.
Not obvious. Not intrusive. Just there.
Later, as Nova mingled effortlessly, I slipped onto the terrace for air. The city lights stretched endlessly below, the night cool against my skin.
"You shouldn't be out here alone."
I turned.
It was him.
Up close, he was devastating. Tall, broad-shouldered, features sharp yet calm. His eyes—dark and steady—held something unreadable, something restrained. He looked like a man constantly holding himself back.
"I'm fine," I said quickly.
He nodded. "These events can feel suffocating."
"You noticed," I said before I could stop myself.
His lips curved slightly. "It's my job to notice."
Silence stretched between us.
"I—" he began, as though deciding something.
Footsteps approached.
"Prince—"
The word cut sharply through the night.
My breath caught.
The man stiffened instantly.
The voice belonged to another guard, who froze mid-step, realization flickering across his face. "Sir— I mean— they're looking for you. It's urgent."
Prince?
The word echoed in my mind, loud and disorienting.
The man's jaw tightened. He looked at me, something like apology in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or warning.
"I should go," he said quietly.
Before I could speak—before I could ask anything—he turned and walked away, swallowed by the movement of security and staff, leaving me standing there with a racing heart and a thousand unanswered questions.
Prince.
The word refused to settle.
Back in my room that night, staring at the ceiling, I replayed the moment again and again. The interruption. The tension. The way he had almost said something—almost told me something.
Whatever he was hiding, whatever role he was playing, I knew one thing with terrifying clarity.
He hadn't been pretending when he looked at me.
And whatever I had stepped into, it was far more dangerous—and far more alluring—than I had ever imagined.