FATED TO HIS DARKNESS

AMARA’S POV

The first time I realised I was being watched, the shadows moved before I did.

At twenty-five, my life looked perfect from the outside. A steady job at a top firm. A small apartment. Predictable routines that kept everything in order. Control has always been my comfort.

Lately, that control had started to slip.

It began with a message.

My phone vibrated during a meeting that afternoon. An unknown number flashed across the screen.

I have been watching you.

A chill crawled up my spine. When I looked again, the number was gone.

I told myself it was a prank.

Still, unease followed me through the rest of the day, clinging to my thoughts like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

That evening, as I slipped the key into my apartment door, the feeling returned. That sharp awareness of being observed, as though someone stood just beyond my line of sight. Once, my reflection flickered in the glass window, and for a split second, I thought I saw a figure behind me.

When I turned, there was no one there.

I blamed stress. Long hours. Too much caffeine.

That night, work kept me late. The streets were half-empty, slick with rain. A street lamp flickered overhead as I walked faster, clutching my bag close, my senses straining for the slightest sound.

Then I felt it.

Someone was watching me.

I froze and slowly turned.

Across the street stood a man in a black coat. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but his eyes caught the light—golden, unnatural, and fixed on me with unsettling intensity.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Can I help you?” I asked, my voice trembling.

His head tilted slightly, as though memorising my face. A strange certainty settled in my chest, he wasn’t a stranger.

Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

My phone buzzed.

I flinched.

“Mom,” I answered.

“Amara! Your sister is getting married next month!” Her excitement sliced through my nerves. “You’re coming home, right?”

“Of course,” I muttered.

“And don’t come alone this time,” she added firmly. “Everyone will ask why you’re still single. Bring a man. Pretend if you have to.”

I stared at the empty street.

A man watching me… and now a fake boyfriend.

Perfect.

I rushed into my apartment building and pressed the elevator button, my fingers tapping restlessly against my bag. As the doors closed, my thoughts drifted back to the message.

I have been watching you.

Another memory surfaced, someone at the coffee shop last week. The way his gaze lingered before he disappeared into the crowd.

By the time I reached my floor, unease had settled deep in my chest.

Inside my apartment, I locked the door, checked the windows, and drew the curtains. The city’s hum outside felt heavier than usual, pressing in on the silence.

Later, desperate for distraction, I opened my laptop. Hours blurred together until exhaustion pulled me under.

Sleep claimed me.

I stood on a narrow street wrapped in mist.

He was there.

Closer this time.

His golden eyes locked onto mine with a familiarity that stole my breath. The pull between us felt real—tangible—as if something unseen bound us together.

He reached out, his hand hovering inches from mine, warm and steady.

Before our fingers could touch, the dream shattered.

I jolted awake, heart racing. The room felt too quiet. I hugged my teddy tightly, forcing myself to stay awake, afraid of slipping back into that dream.

Questions crowded my mind.

Who was he?

Why was he watching me?

And why did it feel like he already knew me?

Exhaustion won.

As my eyes drifted closed, a warm breath brushed my ear.

A whisper followed-low, intimate.

“Soon.”