The bank smelled the same.
Cleaner. Disinfectant. Polished metal.
She sat behind her desk, headset on, hands steady as she guided an elderly customer through a transaction she could do in her sleep. Her voice sounded normal. Professional. Calm.
Inside, she was unraveling.
Every time the automatic doors slid open, her spine went rigid.
She told herself she was being ridiculous. Evan wasn't coming back. He didn't need to. He'd already proven how easily he could step into her life, rearrange it, and walk out again.
That didn't stop her from imagining him.
She hated that part most.
She hated how her body remembered him—how close he'd stood, how little effort he'd needed to make her feel small. How his confidence hadn't been loud or cruel, just certain.
He knew what he was.
Men like Evan always did.
She dropped a pen. As she bent to retrieve it, her mind betrayed her—unwanted, vivid images flashing through her thoughts. His mouth close to her ear. His voice, low and controlled.
The scent of expensive perfume and danger that seemed to always hover around her.
Her fingers curled around the pen too tightly.
Get a grip.
"You okay, Rhoda?"
She looked up to see her manager watching her from across the counter. Concerned. Oblivious.
"Yes," she said quickly. "Just tired."
If he only knew.
She glanced toward the spot on the floor where she'd lain face-down days ago, cheek pressed to marble, breath counted in terror. The memory was sharp, intrusive.
That was where Evan had stood.
Not frantic. Not rushed.
In control.
The realization made her stomach twist.
He hadn't panicked during the robbery. He hadn't panicked in her apartment. He wouldn't panic if things went wrong.
Men like that didn't lose control.
They decided when to use it.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
Once.
Her heart jumped before her mind caught up.
She didn't need to check to know who it was.
Unknown Number:
Still thinking about me?
Her breath stalled.
She should ignore it. She knew that. Any sane woman would.
Instead, she typed with fingers that trembled with anger—at him, at herself.
Rhoda:
You don't own space in my head.
The reply came instantly.
Unknown Number:
If that were true, you wouldn't be answering.
Her jaw tightened.
She could almost hear the faint amusement in his voice—not smug, not teasing. Confident. Like a man aware of his effect and entirely unapologetic about it.
Rhoda:
You're arrogant.
Unknown Number:
No. I'm observant.
She stared at the screen, pulse pounding, aware of how exposed she felt sitting in the very place where he'd first entered her life like a knife.
Unknown Number:
You hate that you want what I could do to you.
Heat rushed to her face.
She didn't respond.
She couldn't.
Because the worst part was this—
He wasn't guessing.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket just as the doors slid open again.
For a split second, she thought she saw him.
Tall. Dark. Still.
Her breath caught—then released in shaky relief when it was just another customer.
But the damage was done.
Evan wasn't in the bank.
He didn't need to be.
He was already under her skin.
And Rhoda knew—with a certainty that made her chest ache—that when he finally touched her again, it wouldn't be by force.
It would be beca
use she stopped fighting the part of herself that wanted him to.