Chapter 12: Lottie

I instantly regret saying all of that out loud.

Saying it makes it real.

And I don’t know what’s more terrifying; that I’m wrong, or that I’m right.

I force myself to look at my tormentor.

He looks… stunned.

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even interrupt.

He just stares at me like I’ve completely lost my mind.

Fair.

The silence doesn’t last long.

Thud.

A muffled moan follows.

Then another.

My stomach twists.

I let out a small, awkward laugh, trying to break the tension.

“Wow, who needs p**n when you get it live?”

He doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t even smirk.

Instead, his expression shifts into something between annoyance and confusion.

“At this point,” he says flatly, gesturing upward, “I assumed you wouldn’t find it amusing, considering it’s coming from your penthouse.”

The words hit instantly.

And this time, I really listen.

The sounds.

The voices.

My breath catches.

I know that voice.

I know both of them.

My husband’s low groan — unmistakable.

And Anya…

Anyone within a ten-mile radius of our college dorm could recognise her.

The smile falls from my face.

My stomach drops.

I thought I knew what betrayal felt like.

I didn’t.

Because this?

This is worse.

Hearing it.

Knowing it.

Confirming it.

It feels like my insides just collapsed through all twenty floors of this building.

A tear slips down my cheek.

Just one.

Because rage doesn’t give grief much time to settle.

I move before I can think.

I storm past him, snatching my swipe card off the table and heading straight for the elevator.

Everything blurs.

I don’t remember pressing the button.

Don’t remember the ride.

Don’t remember stepping out.

One second I’m in his apartment.

The next, I’m standing in front of my door.

The sounds are louder now.

Clearer.

Real.

I shove the door open.

The noise floods the penthouse.

I don’t hesitate.

I head straight for the kitchen.

My hand grabs the cleaver from the knife block.

I turn—

—and slam straight into him.

The cleaver slips from my hand.

Clang.

The sound echoes sharply against the marble floor.

The noise from the bedroom stops.

Silence.

Before I can react, he grabs me and drags me backward.

The elevator.

Doors closing.

Movement.

Then—

his apartment again.

“What the hell—” I start.

“Are you trying to go to prison before we even figure out if you’re right?” he snaps.

My anger flares instantly.

“That is none of your concern,” I fire back. “And it’s definitely none of your fucking business. Now let go of me before I call the police for harassment.”

He releases me.

I lose my balance and hit the floor hard.

Pain shoots up my spine.

“Ow—what the hell? You fucking monster!”

Before I can think better of it, I lash out.

My foot hooks behind his knee and I shove forward with everything I have.

He goes down.

But not like I expect.

He catches himself, distributing the impact, controlled.

Of course he does.

He looks up at me, brows furrowed.

But he doesn’t yell.

Doesn’t react emotionally at all.

When he speaks, his voice is low. Measured. Controlled.

“I’m only going to say this once.”

Something in me stills.

“You don’t get to make emotional decisions in a situation like this,” he continues. “That’s how people end up dead, Scarlett.”

“My name is Charlotte,” I snap.

He pushes himself up, towering over me, and lets out a quiet chuckle.

“I prefer Scarlett,” he says. “It’s the exact shade your face turns when you’re embarrassed and angry… like now.”

A pause.

“Or do you prefer pervert tomato?”

My face betrays me instantly, heat rushing to my cheeks and neck.

I glare at him.

“And what’s your name?” I shoot back. “You seem to know mine, so it’s only fair.”

He studies me for a moment.

Then—

“Azriel,” he says. “But you can call me Az.”

I smile.

Slow.

Sharp.

“Oh, I see,” I say sweetly. “I’ll call you Az-hole. Seems more fitting, don’t you think?”

For the first time—

He blinks.

Got you.

A loud, aggressive growl breaks the tension.

It takes me a second to realise it came from Azriel.

I glance at him, raising a brow.

“You seem a little famished there, Az-hole,” I say, shifting the subject.

He gives me that look again.

The one that sits somewhere between annoyed and confused.

“How do you do that?” he asks, a hint of something else in his voice now. Something almost like concern.

“Do what exactly, Az-hole?” I reply sweetly.

His jaw ticks.

“You went from hurt, to furious, to unhinged,” he says slowly, “and now you’re back to… this. In under ten minutes.”

Good question.

“I don’t know,” I admit with a small shrug. “It’s almost like I’ve been here before. Survival instinct, maybe.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods once.

“I was on my way to get lunch,” he says. “Before you forced your way into my schedule like a hurricane. I’ll be back.”

He turns and walks out before I can respond.

Typical.

I push myself up—

Pain shoots through my lower back.

I wince.

“You’re just going to leave—” I start, but the front door slams shut before I can finish.

Az-hole.

I make my way carefully toward the door, wincing slightly with each step.

Voices drift through from the other side.

Familiar ones.

I freeze, my hand hovering over the handle.

The elevator.

They must be right outside.

I press my ear against the door.

“I’m sorry, you’re saying someone attempted to break into your place?” Azriel asks.

“No, not attempted,” Vance replies smoothly. “They were successful. Must’ve left after dropping a cleaver. It alerted me and my… wife.”

My stomach twists.

“Have you notified security? Police?” Azriel asks.

“No, I don’t think we need to take drastic measures,” a third voice cuts in quickly.

Anya.

Of course.

The faint mechanical hum of the elevator fades as it descends.

They must have just come down from the penthouse.

Which means—

They’re right outside.

All of them.

“Ah,” Azriel says lightly. “You must be the wife.”

Silence.

“Well, I assume you are,” he continues, sharper now. “Considering you’re responsible for the… performance that’s disrupted my day twice now.”

Silence again.

I almost smile.

“And if you’re the wife…” he adds casually, “does that mean the other gorgeous woman I’ve seen around your penthouse is single?”

My heart stutters.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Oh, that?” Vance laughs. “That hideous thing is our maid. You wouldn’t want that. Who knows what she’s picked up from the slums.”

Anya bursts into laughter.

Something inside me snaps.

I reach for the door handle—

It doesn’t move.

I glance around.

No visible lock.

Just a small screen. A keypad.

Locked in.

Of course.

“Well then,” Azriel says smoothly, “between us men, I’ve had my eye on her since I moved in. Guess I can finally make my move.”

Silence.

Tension.

Then—

The elevator arrives.

Doors open.

Their voices fade.

And just like that—

I’m alone.

Locked inside a stranger’s apartment.

I don’t try to get out.

Not immediately.

Instead, curiosity gets the better of me.

I start looking around.

The space is immaculate. Intentional. Dark.

Controlled.

Like him.

Ten minutes into snooping, my phone rings.

Vance.

I answer calmly.

“Hi darling, everything okay?” I ask sweetly.

“My love,” he says quickly, “I just met our new neighbour. He’s insane.”

“Oh?” I hum. “I met him earlier. You’re right. He complained about the noise coming from our penthouse… which is funny, considering it wasn’t us.”

A pause.

“It was Anya, right?” I add lightly.

Vance stumbles over his words.

“Are you okay?” I ask, voice still soft. “You sound flustered.”

“Just don’t talk to him,” he says sharply. “I don’t trust him.”

I roll my eyes.

I’m already not listening.

Because somehow, I’ve wandered into Azriel’s bedroom.

And it stops me cold.

It’s… haunting.

Black silk sheets stretched perfectly across the bed.

Velvet pillows in black and gold.

Dark walls, rich and deliberate.

Gold accents.

Metal shelving.

Everything sharp. Clean. Controlled.

My eyes drift to his desk.

And then—

I see it.

A diary.

Open.

Something in my chest tightens.

“Sorry darling,” I say quickly into the phone. “Carter’s calling. Probably about the Morvant situation.”

I hang up before he can respond.

Because I’m already walking toward it.

Already reading.

Already knowing I shouldn’t be.

But I do anyway.

And the moment I see it—

My blood runs cold.

My name.

Written over and over again.

Lottie.

Lottie.

LOTTIE.