Page 80 of Lord of the Dark

And yet, inside, I was chaos.

My mind clung to him. The memory of our last night seared itself relentlessly into my consciousness. I could still feel his hands on my skin, his lips tracing every line of my body, his voice—rough and dark—whispering my name. Every touch, every kiss, every glance had carved itself into me, as if I’d only truly come alive in his arms. The harder I tried to banish him from my thoughts, the tighter those memories gripped me. His absence had left a void nothing could fill.

"Fiona?" Mrs. Pierce’s voice snapped me back. "Would you present the next room?"

"Of course," I said swiftly, forcing a smile. "Please follow me."

We stepped into the master bedroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the ocean, and the golden glow of the sun bathed the room in warmth. I lifted a hand to emphasize the view. "As you can see, the bedroom is oriented so you wake with the sunrise each morning."

Mr. Thompson nodded appreciatively; his colleague snapped a photo with his phone. I kept speaking, clinging to professionalism, but beneath the surface, I simmered.

He wasn’t coming. Not after how far we’d gone.

What the hell was this?

Then I heard footsteps.

Slowly, I turned—and my heart stalled as I saw him.

He stepped onto the rooftop terrace, his movements as lethally graceful as ever, posture unwavering. The navy suit clung like a second skin, the white beneath it blindingly crisp, the gilded sun setting his dark hair aflame. But his gaze was ice. A wall I couldn’t breach. No smile. No flicker of recognition that I even existed.

My stomach twisted into a sick, aching knot. The chill of his detachment hit like a punch to the gut. It was absurd, how much I needed him now, how violently I craved his nearness. And here he stood—a stranger.

"Perfect timing," Mrs. Pierce said brightly, greeting him. "We’ve just finished the terrace."

"I hope I’m not late," he replied, tone polished, impersonal.

"Not at all," Mr. Thompson countered, smile widening to his eyes. "Your expertise here is more than welcome, Alessandro."

Alessandro. Only those who knew him intimately used his real name. Their handshake was too familiar, too weighted with unspoken history. This wasn’t just business—it was mutual regard bordering on respect, evident in the way they measured each other.

"I thought it best to ensure everything runs smoothly in person," Alessandro said, a thread of irony woven through his tone.

"That’s one reason I enjoy working with you," Thompson replied with a curt nod. "But I’ve told you—you’ll have to learn to downshift eventually."

Alessandro smirked, but his eyes never sought mine. Instead, he fixed Thompson with a look that bordered on challenge. "Downshift? I wasn’t aware that was ever my strength." Their quiet laughter curled between them, leaving me stranded on the periphery. His indifference was a blade—no spark of recognition, no trace of the intimacy that had once seared us together. Every inch of him was polished detachment, as if I were nothing more than a passing acquaintance.

Mrs. Pierce smoothly redirected, addressing Alessandro. "Good timing. We were just heading to the kitchen—Fiona’s already covered the key details with Mr. Thompson."

Alessandro nodded but didn’t so much as glance my way. "Glad to hear it," he said flatly, his gaze skimming the room.

My cheeks burned—with humiliation, with fury, with something dangerously close to grief. The tour resumed, but his proximity was torture. Every word he spoke was measured, impersonal, stripped of the warmth or the rough-edged intimacyI’d come to crave. He stood beside me, yet I’d never felt further from him. And it was maddening.

"The kitchen was designed to balance functionality with aesthetics," I explained, gesturing to the veined granite and integrated appliances. "It’s a space meant for both daily life and entertaining."

Alessandro was flawless. Too flawless. His gaze brushed over me like I was part of the furniture—useful, utterly insignificant. No hint of the man who’d mapped my body with his mouth hours earlier. His expression was neutral, his tone clinical, every syllable reserved for the client. The facade was so impeccable it hurt. He was a master at erasing himself. As if he’d decided overnight that nothing between us had ever mattered.

I couldn’t tell if this was a performance—or if he meant it.

Maybe both.

The void inside me yawned wider, swallowing every fragile hope I’d foolishly let take root. No touch. No glance. Not even the barest acknowledgment that I existed beyond the shadows. It felt like he’d erased me after breakfast. He was so untouchable, so severed from what we’d been, that for a heartbeat, I doubted my own sanity.

Had I imagined it all?

He might as well have ignored me—and in a way, he did. No fleeting touch, no glance that lingered a second longer than necessary. As if I were nothing to him. A lump rose in my throat, but I forced a smile, clinging to the facade he’d already mastered. I couldn’t let it show how deep the cut went—but that didn’t dull the blade. He treated me like air.

The next room was a study—spacious, with high ceilings and a floor-to-ceiling glass wall framing the gardens. Dark wood dominated, paired with modern furniture and muted tones. A broad desk faced the windows, flanked by sleek shelves that balanced function and elegance.

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