Two days passed.
Aria remained in the shadows, careful with every step, every click, every phone call. She stayed off the grid — no social media, no emails, nothing traceable.
But that didn't stop him.
Dr. Frederick Morgan was like smoke — impossible to contain. He'd left no trace of his past victims. No official complaints. No lawsuits. His files were sterilized. His clinic protected.
But now, Aria was his fix.
His challenge.
His obsession.
And that made her vulnerable — because Frederick didn't chase out of love.
He chased to own.
Aria sat in the backroom of an old bookstore — one of the few places that didn't have eyes. Her contact, Mallory, slid a dusty manila file across the table.
"I had to dig into state-level archives," Mallory whispered. "This is pre-clinic. Before he became 'Doctor Frederick.'"
Aria opened the file.
What she saw made her stomach tighten.
Birth name: Frederick Jonas Mori.
Expelled from medical school in Hungary.
Two charges: Unethical experimentation and unauthorized patient trials.
Charges dismissed after the lead witness — a female med student — died in an accident.
Except…
Aria flipped the page.
There she was.
Natalie.
Her sister.
Same face. Same sharp jawline. Same eyes.
Frederick had changed his name. Fled the country. Rebuilt his empire in silence.
And now he was hiding again — in plain sight.
Meanwhile, inside his penthouse, Frederick watched the security feed on his wall — not of his clinic.
But of Aria's apartment building.
He'd had cameras installed two weeks ago, when he first realized she wasn't just another woman. She was always careful — changing her routines, wearing hats, avoiding direct lines of sight.
But he still watched.
Still learned.
And tonight, he was ready to inject a little chaos into her calm.
He picked up his phone.
> To Aria
"How's Natalie these days? You both moan the same."
He hit send.
Then he smiled — and sipped his wine.
The message hit Aria like a blade to the chest.
She nearly dropped her phone.
But her fury sharpened instead of crumbling her.
He knew about Natalie.
Worse — he wasn't afraid to use it.
Her hands trembled, but not from fear — from a rage so cold it seared her insides.
She opened her laptop, accessed a private drive, and uploaded the audio recording she'd taken in Room 7 — Frederick's voice, his threats, his words, his lust.
She sent it to an anonymous blogger with over 100,000 subscribers and one instruction:
> "If I disappear, publish this."
Later that night, a knock came at Aria's door.
She reached for her knife, heart racing.
But when she opened it — no one was there.
Just a black velvet box on the floor.
Inside: a red silk blindfold and a note.
> "Dinner. Tomorrow. Room 7.
Come as you are. Or I come to you."
It wasn't a request.
It was an order.
And the worst part?
Part of her wanted to go.
Not out of fear.
But because the hunger he had awakened hadn't died — it had evolved.
--
The next night, Room 7 was candlelit.
No nurses. No guards. No cameras.
Just Frederick — in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, waiting beside an empty dinner table dressed like a scene from a twisted romance film.
The moment Aria walked in, her heels echoing against the tiles, he stood.
"You came," he said.
"I had to," she replied.
Their eyes locked.
No words.
Just tension — thick, electric, begging to explode.
He gestured to the seat opposite him.
"Sit."
She did.
He poured her wine. Neither touched it.
Frederick leaned forward, voice velvet and venom. "You're trying to destroy me."
"No," she replied coldly. "I'm trying to expose you."
"Same thing."
A long silence.
Then he smiled — that smile.
The one that used to seduce, but now sickened her.
"I'm not like the others, Aria," he said, lowering his voice. "I don't break. I bend people until they snap."
"And I don't bend," she said, staring into his eyes. "I cut."
Room 7 had never felt this quiet.
The usual hum of machines was absent. No medical charts. No gloves. No masks.
Just candlelight flickering softly against the tiled walls — like shadows breathing.
And at the center of it all were Aria and Dr. Frederick, seated across a table dressed for lovers, not enemies.
"Why the theatrics?" she asked, watching him pour a second glass of wine.
He didn't answer immediately. He watched her — like he always did — with eyes that peeled away armor, one glance at a time.
"You're the only one who's ever come back," he said at last. "Most women… they break."
Aria arched an eyebrow. "That's because most women didn't come prepared."
Frederick smirked. "True. But most women didn't intrigue me either."
He stood and walked around the table slowly, deliberately, like a lion circling a lioness — curious, dangerous.
"Tell me, Aria… if you hate me so much, why are you here? Why not run? Or shoot me in the head and be done with it?"
Her answer was slow, honest.
"Because I need to know if the monster I'm hunting… bleeds."
That made him pause.
Then, shockingly… he laughed.
A low, amused chuckle that echoed through the room like music over a grave.
"God, you're beautiful when you're dangerous."
He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. She flinched, but didn't pull away.
"You know this will end badly," she said.
"Then let it," he whispered. "Let it burn."
Their faces were inches apart now.
He smelled like cedar and blood.
She felt her breath hitch — not from fear. But from something far more dangerous.
Desire.
A twisted one. The kind that bloomed in warzones and echoed between predator and prey. Lust painted in red flags.
"Say stop," he murmured, his fingers tracing the back of her neck.
"I should," she replied, voice trembling.
But she didn't.
Instead, she closed the distance, her lips brushing his — a spark, not yet a fire. Testing the line. Testing herself.
Then he kissed her.
Hard.
Hungry.
Everything they'd been suppressing ignited like dry leaves under lightning.
He pulled her closer, lifting her onto the table in one fluid motion, her legs wrapping around his waist.
But even as his hands explored her waist, his mouth tracing her neck, Aria whispered something that made him freeze:
"Tell me what you did to Natalie."
He stopped.
His breath ragged.
His grip loosened.
But he didn't move away.
Instead, he rested his forehead against hers and whispered:
"Do you want the truth… or the version that lets you keep hating me?"
"Both," she said.
And so he told her.
"She came to me… broken. Abused. Looking for power. I gave it to her. She wanted more. More control. More pain. I warned her. But she said she could handle it."
"And then?"
"She couldn't. The game went too far. I tried to stop. She didn't want me to. She recorded everything. Then one day, she disappeared."
"You killed her."
"No," he said. "But I didn't save her either."
A silence swallowed the room.
Aria stared into his eyes — searching for truth. All she found was sorrow. Real or faked? She couldn't tell.
But her body… responded anyway.
"You're evil," she whispered.
"So are you," he replied.
And they kissed again.
This time deeper, slower — like drowning willingly.
Their war paused — not ended. Not forgiven. Just… surrendered to for one night.
Later, the table was scattered with fallen silverware and forgotten wine.
Aria lay with her head on Frederick's chest, heart pounding against his.
Both knew this was dangerous.
Wrong.
Deadly.
But neither moved.
"You still want to destroy me?" he asked, brushing her fingers.
"Yes," she replied. "Even more now."
"Then I'll make it worth your while," he said, kissing her knuckles.
Because love wasn't born here.
Obsession was.
And in Room 7, obsession always won.
✦