This is not appropriate.

RAFAEL

The first thing I noticed about Melanie Swan was that she did not belong to the kind of light she carried on her face.

When she walked in with Allison the day before, she had been smiling, bright and effortless, the kind of beauty that drew attention without trying. Youth clung to her in a way that made everything about her feel alive, from the way she moved to the easy laughter that slipped past her lips. Anyone looking at her would have seen nothing but a carefree girl enjoying a trip with her best friend.

I had seen something else.

There had been a quiet weight in her eyes, something far too heavy for someone her age. It was not obvious, not something most people would catch in passing, but I had spent too many years reading people to miss it. It lingered beneath the surface, subtle but persistent, like a shadow that refused to leave even under the brightest light.

I had met all kinds of people in my lifetime, from those who wore their pain openly to those who buried it so deep it barely surfaced. Melanie fell into the latter, and that alone was enough to make me uneasy in a way I could not immediately explain. People like her did not hide things without reason.

I had intended to keep my distance.

That had been the plan from the start. This trip was supposed to be simple, a break from everything that demanded my attention back home. A chance to breathe, to enjoy time with my daughter, and perhaps indulge in the kind of temporary distractions that came without complications. There were always women, always opportunities, but I had rules, boundaries I did not cross.

My daughter’s friends were firmly within those boundaries.

And yet, from the moment she stepped into my house, something about Melanie had unsettled that clarity.

It had only grown worse after last night.

When she came back earlier that day, I noticed immediately how carefully she moved through the house, as though she were trying to avoid being seen. She had not looked in my direction, but she did not need to. The tension in her shoulders, the way she kept her gaze lowered, told me everything I needed to know.

She felt guilty.

About what, I could only assume.

The way she had reacted, the sharp edge in her voice when she told me to leave, it had not been anger directed at me. It had been something else, something raw and uncontained, and I had no intention of cornering her about it. People revealed things in their own time, not when they were pushed.

Still, she had looked pale.

Too pale.

So I had asked one of the maids to take her something to eat, keeping the gesture simple and without explanation. It was not concern I needed to announce, nor kindness that required acknowledgment. Sometimes the smallest things were enough to steady someone.

I had returned to my work after that, taking a call I had been putting off since morning. My focus had been on the conversation, on deadlines and expectations, on the familiar structure of control that came with my profession. It grounded me, kept everything in order.

Until I heard her scream.

It cut through the house sharply, raw and unrestrained, the kind of sound that did not leave room for hesitation. For a split second, I froze, my mind catching up with what my body had already decided.

Then I moved.

I did not knock.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside without thinking about propriety or boundaries, because whatever had caused that sound mattered more than either of those things. The sight that met me stopped me in my tracks for half a heartbeat.

She was curled into herself on the bed, trembling, her face streaked with tears as another sob tore from her chest. The panic in her eyes was not fading, not even as she looked at me, and that alone told me this was no simple nightmare she could shake off.

“Melanie,” I called, my voice lower now, steady, careful not to startle her further.

She did not answer.

Instead, she reached for me.

The movement was instinctive, desperate, her fingers gripping my shirt as though I were the only solid thing left in her world. I sat beside her without hesitation, my arms coming around her to steady the violent tremors running through her body.

“It’s alright,” I murmured, keeping my tone calm despite the tightness in my chest. “You’re safe.”

Her sobs did not stop immediately, but she leaned into me, holding on with a strength that surprised me. It was not just fear, it was something deeper, something that had been building long before this moment.

My hand moved slowly along her back, a steady rhythm meant to ground her, to remind her she was not alone. I had done this before, years ago, when Allison was younger and nightmares still chased her into the night. The instinct had not left me.

What I had not expected was the way my awareness shifted.

The faint warmth of her skin beneath my hand, the soft scent that clung to her as she pressed closer, something light and unfamiliar that settled in the air between us. My breath slowed, then caught for a fraction of a second as I became aware of how close she was, how easily she fit against me.

I stilled.

This was not appropriate.

The thought came sharply, cutting through the moment with clarity I refused to ignore. She was my daughter’s friend, a guest in my home, someone far too young to be caught in the kind of awareness that had just crept into my mind.

I began to pull back, intending to put space between us before that line blurred any further.

“Please don’t go,” she whispered, her voice small and unsteady.

The words stopped me.

I looked down at her, really looked this time, and the sight tightened something in my chest. Her face was flushed from crying, her lashes still damp, her expression carrying a kind of exhaustion that went beyond a simple nightmare.

I exhaled slowly and reached into my pocket, pulling out my handkerchief. With a gentleness I did not often show, I lifted it to her face and wiped away the tear tracks, careful not to startle her with the contact.

“It’s over now,” I told her quietly.

She shook her head almost immediately, fresh tears slipping free despite her effort to hold them back.

“It’s never going to be over,” she said, her voice breaking on the words.

I frowned slightly, not because I doubted her, but because I did not understand what she meant. The conviction in her tone was not exaggerated, it was certain, as though she was speaking from something she had already accepted.

That was not something a nightmare could do.

I did not press her.

Instead, I stayed.

Her breathing remained uneven for a while, her body still tense in my arms as though she expected something else to happen. I kept my presence steady, letting the silence stretch without forcing conversation into it. Slowly, the tremors began to ease, her grip loosening just enough to show she was coming back to herself.

When she finally pulled back slightly, there was a flicker of embarrassment in her expression, her gaze dropping as though she could not quite meet mine.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice rough from crying. “For everything. For earlier too. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have caused a scene.”

I watched her for a moment, taking in the way her shoulders tensed as she spoke, the faint fear that lingered in her eyes. It was not the reaction of someone worried about simple rudeness. It was deeper than that, rooted in something that made her expect consequences where there should have been none.

“I’ve already forgotten about that,” I replied calmly, keeping my tone even. “You reacted based on how you felt at the time. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

She glanced up at me, uncertainty flickering across her face.

“I’m a father,” I continued, allowing a faint hint of warmth into my voice. “If I took offense at every emotional reaction, it would mean I wasn’t a very patient one.”

A faint flush rose to her cheeks at that, soft but unmistakable. It changed something in her expression, easing the tension just enough to make her look less guarded, less like she was waiting for something to go wrong.

I noticed it.

More than I should have.

The awareness from earlier returned, quieter this time but no less present, settling somewhere in the back of my mind where it had no business being. I had been attracted to her the moment she walked in, and acknowledging that now did not make it any less inappropriate.

It made it worse.

I swallowed and stood abruptly, putting distance between us before that line blurred again.

“I have a few things to attend to,” I said, keeping my voice neutral despite the shift in my thoughts.

She nodded quickly, as though she expected nothing else, though there was something unreadable in her expression before she looked away.

I did not linger.

I stepped out of the room and closed the door behind me, the quiet of the hallway settling around me almost immediately. For a moment, I stood there, exhaling slowly as I forced my thoughts back into order.

This was not something I allowed.

I had been divorced for years, and I had never lacked for company. There had been women, many of them, but always at a distance that kept my personal and professional life intact. I did not mix those worlds, not when it came to people who were too close to home.

My daughter’s friends were not an exception to that rule.

They were the rule.

The same way I avoided entanglements within my business circle or anything connected to my past, I kept those lines clear for a reason. Complications were unnecessary, and I had no intention of inviting them into my life.

And yet, as I walked toward my study, one thought refused to leave me alone.

It was not desire.

Not entirely.

It was concern.

The way she had clung to me, the way she spoke, the certainty in her voice when she said it would never be over, none of it aligned with something as simple as a bad dream. There was more beneath the surface, something she had not said, something she might not even know how to say.

That, I could not ignore.

I stepped into my study and closed the door behind me, the familiar space grounding me as I reached for my phone. There were people I trusted for situations that required discretion, and this was one of them.

The line rang once before it connected.

“Matteo,” I said, my tone returning to its usual clarity. “I need you to look into someone for me.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by a quiet acknowledgment.

“Melanie Swan,” I continued. “I want everything you can find. Background, family, recent activity. As soon as possible.”

I leaned back slightly, my gaze settling on nothing in particular as I considered the weight of what I was asking.

This was not curiosity.

And it was not control.

If she was going through something, truly going through it in a way that left her this shaken, then I needed to understand it before I decided how to help.

Because one thing was already clear.

I was not going to ignore it.

…